


Twelve Days

by bogwitch, Hesadevil



Category: Angel: the Series and Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogwitch/pseuds/bogwitch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesadevil/pseuds/Hesadevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written with Cass and Bogwitch.</p><p>Twelve Days is a BtVS/AtS fic that spans the twelve day period of Christmas 2004/2005, We  re-published it in 2005/2005 and posted a chapter 'live' everyday from Christmas Eve 2005 to Twelfth Night 2006.</p><p>Illyria takes Spike on a journey through Christmas, much to his reluctance...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twelve Days: The Prologue

  


  


  
© Bogwitch  


**Prologue: **by Bogwitch  
**  
_ 24th December 2004_**

“I can't find anything in this town but sodding Christmas stuff." Spike  
sighed as he dumped a small bag of groceries onto the motel bed. “And you  
have to fight through all the people to get it. You should have seen the  
queue at the butchers, Blue.”

He’d been out on his usual grocery run, picking up the few bits and pieces   
they both needed for their comfort. The usual blood, booze and cigarettes   
for him, whatever Illyria decided she needed at the time for her; but today,   
so close to Christmas, what was usually a quick trip had turned into a nightmare   
of piped carols and traffic, crowds of people and screaming children. He   
never wanted to go outside again. _Bloody Holidays_. The last thing he  
needed right now was Christmas in the way.

Illyria didn’t reply to his complaints, but that was nothing new. She  
spoke when necessary, not troubling herself with something as trivial as  
conversation. Sometimes when she did speak, he’d wish she hadn’t, the terms  
of her disgust with the world tumbling from her mouth as she spat the words  
out. Most of the time, it didn’t matter; she’d stand in silence and he’d  
take up the slack, filling the quiet with his own words as he guided her  
through a life she found startlingly new. He at least, was used to being  
alone; but for Illyria, used to the deference and veneration of legions,  
the harsh reality of being anonymous in a big, bright modern world was proving  
difficult. She had never admitted it to him, but Spike knew she needed him  
for the moment, as a guide and interpreter to a dimension of which she had  
little knowledge. And, despite how remote she could be, he needed her companionship  
for the duration, even as he missed having people to joke or bicker with,  
or even just to talk. But, for now, their arrangement seemed to work well  
enough that way.

After their disastrous attempt to bring down Wolfram and Hart, the survivors   
had gone on the run. After they had seen to the brief funerals of Wesley   
and Gunn, Angel had gone off, who knew where, to draw the heat of their pursuers   
away from the rest, while Spike had ended up with the Illyria straw. He hadn’t  
minded; he’d rather keep the Blue Meanie amused any day, than sneak about  
under the radar of the Senior Partners, looking for an opening that might  
never come. He was better suited to the protection of cranky, strange women  
anyway - Angel could keep the martyrdom.

Never staying anywhere for more than a few days, they’d been on the run  
for seven months now, slowly drifting from place to place. They’d headed  
nowhere along a zig-zag path across America; a vampire, a motorcycle and  
a fallen god king riding pillion on the back. It was an easy life on the  
road, as long as their money held out. Angel had given them a wad of cash  
and had rarely been heard from since, disappearing into the population, only  
to appear at times when they least expected, updating them on their pursuers  
and to replenish their dwindling funds.

But now, well into the chill of December, the year was coming to its close.  
Angel hadn’t been seen for a couple of months and the odd close scrap,  
with demons out to make a few bucks or vampires just looking for trouble,  
indicated that Wolfram and Hart were closing in steadily. Spike and Illyria  
didn’t have time for the holiday season to slow them down.

As Spike warmed to his subject, he waggled a finger expressively at Illyria,   
who stared back impassively with the usual distain in her huge cold eyes.   
"If I hear another Carol Singer, I'll… I'll do something,” he frowned. “At   
least back in the day I could just eat them."

Illyria tilted her head curiously, the movement slow and mechanical. "I  
do not understand."

“Christmas Carols. Annoying singers singing annoying songs. Every. Bloody.   
Year. Can’t bleedin’ escape them.”

“These singers have powers you cannot fight?”

“No, Princess,” Spike shook his head, mildly amused by her confusion.

“They’re everywhere you bloody go, and if it’s not them it’s soddin’ Christmas  
songs; the same ones, year in, year out. You think they’d record some new  
ones.”

“’Christmas’?” Illyria replied, saying the word with distaste. “You speak   
in riddles unknown to me.”

"You know, Christmas! Holly, Ivy, Reindeer and Jesus. All that crap."

"I know nothing of this ‘Christmas’." Illyria’s tone indicated that she  
couldn’t care less either.

Spike plonked himself down on the end of the bed. "It’s nothing you need   
to be concerned about, just a holiday. We just sit tight and the good cheer   
will all blow over by Boxing Day.”

“This ‘Boxing Day’, it was a day of sport?” Illyria asked, starting to   
get interested despite herself.

“Not really. Nothing like that,” Spike sighed again. “It was something   
we used to do back home. They used to give boxes of alms to the poor on the  
day after Christmas.”

Illyria considered the prospect. “You returned the limbs of those fallen   
on this day. Why should you do this?”

Spike chuckled. “Alms, Bluebell, _alms_. A.L.M.S. Not the things  
your hands are attached to. It’s stuff given to the poor in charity.”

“In boxes?” Illyria said, still contemplating his words.

Spike smirked. “As in ‘Boxing Day’.”

Illyria ignored his snark. “On feast days many warriors would come at  
my command and fight for my entertainment. They were honoured to die for  
my amusement.” If he’d thought her capable of it he’d have sworn she was  
feeling nostalgic too.

“Look, Illyria. It’s not like that. Christmas is the birthday of ‘Our  
Lord Jesus’, or something…”

"I serve no Lord." Illyria pronounced, sharply. “All looked to me as their  
ruler. They trembled as they dared to look upon my grace.”

Spike started to roll his eyes, but stopped when he remembered he was  
mimicking Dawn. _God, he missed her sometimes_. He dismissed that thought  
right away. Thinking of Dawn meant thinking of Buffy, and in their current  
predicament… He _didn't want to think about her_. "Don't worry about  
it. It's a human thing, best left alone."

Illyria frowned, no mean feat for a dour deity. “I wish to know the meaning   
of this ‘Christmas’.”

Spike shuddered at the thought of being dragged into a Hallmark Christmas  
Special. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Not going there! You’re talking to  
the wrong bloke. I haven’t had anything to do with Christmas since I was  
alive. Except that one time, when Dru went to that Santa’s Grotto back in  
Boston and we ate all the helpers… But vampire! Remember? Mean, nasty… Hey,  
what are you doing?”

He watched as Illyria silently moved to the motel room door. She reached   
out and pressed her gauntleted hand against the dirty, painted wood, dislodging   
the Management Notice so that clattered to the floor. She squeezed her eyes  
shut and her face began to show the strain of her efforts.

“Illyria?” Spike stood up slowly. All those months spent in Illyria’s  
presence had taught him to move cautiously around her. The last thing he  
wanted now was to be kicked into the opposite wall. “Illyria, What’s wrong?  
Are you alright?”

She gasped and the air around the door began to wobble and throb, rippling   
as reality distorted into pulsating waves.

“Illyria!”

Illyria’s eyes flicked open again at his shout. Her arm jack-knifed out  
and her hand clamped onto his bicep like a vice. “You will teach me.”

”Hey!” He protested, but his words were lost as the motel room became  
no more.

  
  
  


  


  



	2. One the first day of Christmas .... a Partridge in a pear tree

  
  


  
© Hesadevil

  
**On the First Day of Christmas… A Partridge in a Pear Tree, **by Hesadevil****

**Christmas Day, December 25th 1879**

  
"What the bloody hell did you do?" Spike said, shocked.

A void, maybe a place beyond time or reality, or even another dimension,   
stretched out forever in every direction. He could see Illyria staring into   
the nothingness, unmoving, but he couldn't see the light that illuminated   
them. They were standing in an otherwise total darkness. Perhaps this was   
just an illusion.

Disorientated, Spike held his hands out and groped for the door, or for   
anything solid, but there was nothing; just an icy black silence that seemed   
to roar in its intensity.

Then something changed…

It was the smells of Christmas Past that assailed his nostrils first.   
His ultra-sensitive vampire senses detected a heady and intense mix of heavenly  
scents. Evergreen fir and hemlock, cranberries and apple laced with sweet  
cinnamon, the pine-scented Yule log and the warm yeasty odour of freshly  
baked bread from the kitchen, all mingled with spices and fruit from the  
first batch of mince pies. The sweet scent of oranges pierced with woody  
cloves made way for another that was lighter, more floral.

_His Mother's perfume_. As clear in his memory as it had ever  
been.

Spike gulped.

With the scents came the light - and the warmth. A blazing fire roared  
up the chimney, casting flickering shadows on three people dressed in servants'  
livery, standing opposite the hearth, each one holding a small gift-wrapped  
box. To one side of the fire, a refined middle-aged lady dressed in Victorian  
finery sat in an armchair. Beside her, a young man stood affectionately  
over his mother. Everyone was frozen, held still in time until Illyria permitted  
it to move forward.

Beside them, the Christmas tree glowed with the gentle radiance of dozens  
of candles - twinkling lights that hung on fragrant boughs laced with golden  
antiquities. The bedecked branches sagged under the weight of gleaming  
orbs, small sugar sticks, gingerbread men, and marzipan sweets. Tiny packages,  
and nets holding precious cargo of rare citrus, figs and nuts peeped from  
the dark green depths. And, despite the raging bundle of emotions boiling  
up from the well of his memory, Spike couldn't help smirking at the sight  
of the topmost decoration. There, gleaming in white and gold, its hands  
folded in prayer, its wings of spun glass outstretched in protection, stood  
the Angel.

_Always was the drama queen_, he thought.

Illyria had started to move again. Ignoring the scene before her, she   
held out her hand and inspected it as if seeing it for the first time. "The   
weakness of this vessel disappoints me," she said as she turned and scrutinised   
Spike's anxious face. "Time no longer does my bidding. We can visit but for  
a brief moment. They cannot see us."

To demonstrate her point, Illyria stepped between the three servants  
and stared into the fire. "You will teach me about Christmas - from your  
own experience. We shall begin with your human form."

With a flick of her hand time started to move forward again.

Spike gulped again. Oh Boy.

One of the three servants, an elderly man wearing the striped waistcoat   
that denoted his status as footman, stepped forward and addressed the seated   
woman. "Thank you Ma'am. Thank you Master William," he said bowing slightly.

Spike winced as he watched himself, in the form of Master William, nod  
his head at the footman. "Mother and I are only sorry that we can't offer  
the usual gifts from the Americas this year, Albert." He turned to the  
others waiting to be dismissed. "We hope that an early beginning to your  
holiday will suffice. Now off you all go. Mother and I shall attend Evensong  
alone this evening. Be sure to take our Christmas greetings to your families  
and enjoy your full day of rest tomorrow."

As the group filed out past Spike and Illyria, a stout woman wearing  
the cap and apron of a cook stopped and spoke to William. "On be'alf of  
those as was lucky enough to be kept on after the passing of the Master  
\- Gawd rest 'is soul - I'd just like to say how much we 'ppreciate these  
'ere boxes. Knowin' the 'ardship Sir William's loss 'as brung the family,  
we didn't 'spect nuffin' for Boxin' Day this year."

William frowned and clasped his hands behind his back. "Yes, well, erm,   
thank you, Cook. I hardly think that Mother and I are ready for the Poor   
House just yet." He glanced down at his mother who had paled at the mention   
of his father's death. "Father's estate didn't amount to much, I grant you,  
what with the investment going down with the ship. But never fear. All  
is not lost. I shall provide for the family somehow. Start as I mean to  
go on, eh, Mother?"

Illyria stared at William and his mother, concentrating on the small,   
but easily missed interaction between them, noting the softening of William's  
features as he looked into Anne's eyes and the gentle caress as she placed  
her hand in his. They stared into the fire together, happy in a companionable  
silence. "I feel a warmth between these two," Illyria said. It is alien  
to me. Yet it was present between Fred Burkle and the people named as her  
parents. It is not the lust of a man for a woman."

Spike shook his head, not trusting his voice to conceal the emotion he  
was reliving.

"I wish to know more. Wesley refused…"

"Well you bloody well can't!" Spike snarled, interrupting her. Something  
had snapped inside him. "Thought this was about you learning what Christmas   
is about? Not prying into people's feelings!"

Illyria turned to Spike, her glacial eyes staring through him. Time re-started  
as her interest in the mother and son waned. "I wish to understand everything   
in your world."

Spike frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" He looked again at the   
tableau of William perched on the arm of his mother's armchair and then gestured  
at the tree and the decorations of ivy, holly and Christmas cards adorning  
the mantelpiece. "There's yer Christmas," he said savagely. "It's bloody  
stupid decorations and naff presents and stuffing yourself until you burst.  
Can we go back now?"

Illyria ignored him completely. This would be over when she chose and   
no sooner. Her eyes swept the room, taking in the glittering array of items   
on tables and windowsills. "This room is adorned strangely. Why is this?"

Spike shrugged, still bitter and uncomfortable in this parlour from the   
past he thought he'd buried long ago. "Buggered if I know."

Illyria continued her inspection until her eyes came to rest on a centrepiece  
arranged carefully on the polished mahogany dresser. She walked slowly  
towards it and touched the tiny crib at the heart of the scene. "And this?"

"Well, yeah, that's what it's _meant_ to be about," Spike conceded.  
"...Where it all began, I suppose. The birth of Lord Jesus…"

"I do not understand. You say this 'Christmas' celebrated the birth of  
a Lord - a god."

"Son of," Spike corrected. "So he claimed. That's him in the crib."

Illyria scrutinised the other wooden pieces. "In a stable, among the  
beasts? A god would not permit her son to be born thus."

"Look - didn't say I was a soddin' theologian did I? 'S been a long time  
since I was involved in any of this."

A loud knocking at the front door interrupted any further protestations   
Spike may have had. Reluctantly, he followed Illyria as she strode out of   
the door and into the hall. She listened with interest to the noise emanating   
from the steps outside.

"_On the First Day of Christmas_, my true love sent to me…"

Spike groaned to himself. He couldn't escape the carols, even here.

Albert appeared from his quarters and opened the door with a jerk. He   
cuffed the young boy who stood in front of him on the ear. "Bugger off,   
you little…"

"Albert!" William's voice stopped him in mid tirade. "I know it's somewhat  
late for carols, but that's no way to treat the poor little chap." William  
stepped outside and lifted the boy's chin. "It's Tim, isn't it?"

Spike cringed. "I was living in a bloody Dickens novel! God, I'm glad   
I died."

"Yessir, Master William, sir," blubbered the boy, snivelling from the   
blow to his ear and unaware of Spike's comment.

"What are you doing here, child? Your sister's not here. She's on her   
way home. You must have just missed her."

Tim wiped his nose on the sleeve of his carefully mended jacket and rubbed   
his eyes with his fists. "Ma said as 'ow you wouldn't be cummin' to the   
service at St Giles's tomorrow, on account of yer Da's passin'."

William drew the child into the hallway and led him into the warmth of  
the drawing room, to where Spike and Illyria followed them. He reached  
for the teapot, testing its weight. "Albert, I think another pot is called  
for." He guided the child over to the hearth. "Mother, look who's here.  
Emily's little brother. Tim seems to think we shan't be attending the alms'  
service at St Giles-in-the-Fields tomorrow. Is this so?"

"Certainly not," Anne replied. "Your dear Papa's subscription to the  
family pew is paid until the end of the year. We shall go as usual. You,  
of course, as head of the household, will read the lesson in his stead.  
This evening we shall attend Evensong, just as we do every Christmas Day."

William turned to the boy. "There you are Tim. You've had a wasted journey.   
Now, here's tuppence for your song. Make sure you go straight home. Your  
mother will be waiting for you." He picked a spicy pomander from the tree  
and handed it to the boy, along with the coppers he'd taken from his pocket.

"God Bless you sir, and a Merry Christmas to you - and you an' all, Mum,"  
said Tim beaming at them both.

Illyria regarded the boy with interest. "He calls your mother 'Mum',  
and yet she is not his mother. And the servants, they are not bound as  
slaves?"

Spike raised an eyebrow. He really didn't want to go into the complications   
of Cockney pronunciation, nor the socio-economic relationships that existed  
within the household. He needed to get out of the house as soon as possible.  
It was opening too many doors to too many memories he didn't want to remember,  
too many emotions he didn't want to feel; memories of loss and pain, feelings  
of grief and helplessness. He'd died to forget them and he'd been happy  
to let them remain in the past.

"Yeah," he drawled. "It's _complicated_."

"It is similar to the warmth between a mother and son," concluded Illyria.  
"And yet it is different."

"Something like that," agreed Spike.

Illyria fixed her unblinking stare at the little group by the hearth.   
"We will attend this service of which your mother speaks."

"Go to St-Giles-in-the-Fields?" Spike said, with mounting concern. "Where  
I met…" He spun round as the light faded once more and the sweet smells  
of his childhood home gave way to those of the decay and grime of a Holborn  
street.

Once he'd orientated himself, Spike saw William and his mother ahead  
of him, talking to a group of people outside the church, sheltering from  
the icy wind in the lea of the mature trees that framed the spire.

A gentleman of obvious high standing stood at the centre of the group.  
He offered his arm to William's mother. "My dear Anne. Let me escort you  
in. We shall leave the young people to their chit chat before the service  
begins."

Anne accepted the man's offer and he led her away through the main door   
and into the church.

With a rising panic, Spike remembered the scene all too well. He appealed  
to Illyria. "Nothing here of any interest, Blue. Just some musty ceremony   
for the poor buggers who live round these parts."

"These 'buggers', are they sacrificed as an offering to their Christ  
God?"

Spike snorted. "Yeah, that'd fit well with the whole love thy neighbour   
bit."

"I do not understand."

"I got that an apocalypse ago, Princess." Spike glanced nervously at  
William who was deep in conversation with a pretty young woman. He glared  
at a young man who had joined them and was offering the young woman his  
arm. "Look, it's all a bit hazy, but as far as I can remember, we listen  
to some uplifting Christmas music today. Tomorrow, it being Boxing Day,  
the well-off give cash to the poor and needy for some reason - stupid prats.  
End of lesson. Let's go."

Illyria watched with interest, as Spike made no attempt to urge her to  
move. Instead he stepped closer to the pair. Illyria saw his fists clench  
and unclench, the anger he was feeling sweeping across his face as he listened   
to what the newcomer was saying to his past self.

"Cecily has told me about your misfortune, William. It must have been   
a terrible blow for you to have to give up Oxford. I don't suppose the Law   
is your thing at all," the young man guffawed.

Turning his back on William, the young man began to move towards the  
church door, but William stepped in his path and halted his progress. "I  
don't intend to be a solicitor all my life, George, indeed I don't." He  
gazed into Cecily's eyes, adoration clearly visible in his own already.  
"I shall make a name for myself, just as Papa did, one day."

Cecily returned William's worshipping look with one of polite concern.  
"Indeed, perhaps you may. All men must have ambition, I am told, if they  
are worthy to be called gentlemen." Her face softened slightly as she noticed  
William's crestfallen face. "George is throwing a party for me early in  
the New Year, aren't you George? Cecily detached herself from her brother's  
arm and followed her father into the church. "Everyone will be there," she  
called over her shoulder.

"Only a sister could get away with inviting a fellow to another fellow's  
do," said George laughing. "You're welcome to attend, old chap. There'll  
be loads of interesting people who might be a help to you."

Spike was surprised to see William square up to Cecily's brother. "I  
don't need a leg up from you, Underwood," he snapped. "My father's friends…"

"Are of absolutely no use to you at all. They were all caught up in that   
dreadful affair and have enough worries of their own." He watched William's   
eyes follow Cecily into the church and decided now was the time to strike   
the message home. "Look here, Willy, I think you should know that Lord Percy's   
going to be at this party of mine. The negotiations between him and my father   
are at a rather tricky point. You don't want to go queering Cecily's chances  
if you know what's good for you."

With that, George swept into the church, leaving William alone with just  
Illyria and Spike to observe the quiet tears, he shed before pulling himself  
together and joining his mother in the family pew.

Illyria opened her mouth.

"Don't say a word," snarled Spike. "You wanted explanations. Christmas  
began in a stable. This is where _I_ began. That's all you get."

Illyria's face remained impassive. "I wish to hear these Even Songs that  
glorify the Lord Jesus this day. They are offerings from the Minstrels?"

Spike glanced at the announcement pinned to the church door. "Hardly  
think Handel and his mates'd care for that label, Blue," he said.

Illyria scrutinised the notice. "Minstrels composed many songs in my  
honour." She tilted her head at Spike. "The song that the child brought  
to the house. This too was an Even Song." She fell silent, replaying the  
scene at the front door of the house in her mind.

Spike sighed heavily wondering how he was meant to guide a god-King who   
pre-dated Christianity through the complexities of the rituals surrounding   
Christmas when he himself knew so little about them. It was a heck of a long  
time since he'd been to Sunday school. "Not really…"

"I do not see how a song about love and sending gifts pays homage to  
this Christ god." Illyria said after a lengthy silence. "It is surely an  
offering to another. Wesley told me of a god of love named Cupid. Surely  
this is his day?"

Spike chuckled and patted his pockets for his cigarettes. "It might be  
at that. I'm sure the Christians hijacked someone else's festivals at some  
point."

"And yet the child offered it as a suitable one to the worshippers of   
the Christ god?"

Spike thought for a moment, "Technically, he's not a god, he's... Look  
Jesus is the Lord, God is his Dad and the Holy Ghost is something else  
entirely. They all love each other and mankind. The End. Can we please  
go now?"

Illyria ignored him and pressed further. "I wish to know more of the  
song and why it is sung on this day."

Spike paused for a moment, recalling the words of the carol. "Suppose   
it's 'cos it's about a true love sending presents to his sweetheart. A present  
for each of the twelve days." Spike replied sulkily.

"Twelve days?" Illyria tilted her head again. "Today is the first."

"Yeah. How'd it go now?" He hummed quietly to himself. "_On the first   
day of Christmas my true love sent to me - a partridge in a pear tree_."

"A partridge?" asked Illyria. "Is this token of devotion a blood offering."

"I don't bleedin' know, do I?" Spike finished his unsuccessful search   
for his cigarettes, and shoved his hands into his pockets instead. "P'raps   
he thought she was hungry or something. Though I don't see as how she could  
be, what with all the big dinners everyone eats at this time of year."

"What did he send on the second of these twelve days?"

Spike narrowed his eyes and looked at her suspiciously. "Two turtle doves.  
Why? What're you…?"

Illyria closed her eyes and focused her energy. "Two birds. I see them."

  


  


  



	3. On the Second Day of Christmas .... Two Turtle Doves

  
© Bogwitch  


  
**On the  
Second Day of Christmas… Two Turtle Doves, **by Cass****

**Boxing Day, December 26th, 1880**

“Bloody hell! A bit of warning next time, huh?” Spike blinked  
and looked around.

Another drawing room, this one even more sumptuous than the last. The walls   
were papered in expensive, richly patterned flocking, and vast swags of tasselled  
brocade hung at the windows. The dark wood furniture was polished to a deep  
sheen that would have reflected the light of the brightly burning fire and  
glittering candles if every available surface hadn’t been either covered  
with embroidered cloth or cluttered with photographs, porcelain figures and  
potted plants. In one corner a huge aspidistra spread its sombre green leaves,  
jostling for position with a large vase of hothouse flowers, on a small,  
damask-covered table. _High Victoriana at it costliest and ugliest_,  
Spike thought, frowning.

Amongst the rich smells of polish and spices, wood smoke and oranges, the   
pungent smell of pine caught Spike’s attention and he turned slowly to its  
source. Another richly decorated tree stood in pride of place, resplendent  
in glittering red and gold, branches groaning under the weight of sugar-plums  
and gingerbread and gilded fruits. His eyes travelled up to the top. Yep,  
there it was, resplendent in white and gold. No escape from the Angel. _Another  
bloody Christmas_. Was he going to have to re-live each and every one  
of the last 124?

“Haven’t you had enough of all this? It’s getting like something out of   
_A Christmas Carol_: ‘God bless us every one’! Bloody Dickens.”

Spike growled. “Never could stand him myself. Miserable old git.” He frowned.   
“Where are we?”

Illyria tilted her head. “You do not recognise this?” She reached out a   
finger to touch the tree gently. “Why do the humans kill the green at Christmas?”

Spike shook his head vaguely. “I dunno – some bloody peculiar custom brought  
over by the krauts. Look, love…”

“Is it a sacrifice?”

“Only to the gods of commercialism. Illyria, where _are_ we?”

“Your first Christmas as a half-breed. Show me how this differed from before.”

“First as…” Remembrance dawned. “Then where’s…?” There was the sound of   
laughter and the door from the hall flew open. A symphony in silks and satins,   
she twirled into the room, black hair flying, dark eyes flashing. “Drusilla.”

Spike finished softly.

Drusilla stopped spinning and looked around. A slow smile curled her lips.  
“Oh, William.” She purred. “What have you done?”

William came into the room behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.  
“Do you like it?”

“Like lollipops at the fair, my love.” Dru leaned back against him, swaying   
gently. “Look at all the pretty things.” She caught sight of the pile of  
brightly wrapped presents under the tree. “Oh!” She clapped her hands in  
child-like glee. “Are they for me? May I have them?”

“Don’t see why not. They’ve got no use for them.” He jerked his head toward  
a sofa at the far side of the room. Two pale, crumpled figures were propped  
against each other; a man and a woman in their holiday finery, eyes half-closed,  
more dead than alive. A trickle of blood stained the smooth skin of the  
woman’s neck and pooled on the curve of her breasts where they bulged over  
the constrictions of her corset.

“Oh, William.” Dru pouted. “You started the party without me!”

“Just a nip, love, to keep them quiet. Plenty there for you.” He kissed   
her neck. “Besides, I saved you the little ones.”

“Tasty little sweetmeats. They sang like angels.” Dru swayed against him,  
one hand rubbing her stomach. “Tasted like milk and sugarplums and mischief.”

“Slaughter of the innocents!” William gave a hard laugh. “How deliciously  
appropriate. Ah, my love,” he spun her around in his arms and pulled her  
into a tight embrace. ”A new year awaits us! They will tremble at the sound  
of our names! We shall lay waste to the world!”

Drusilla patted his arms. “And so we shall, my dear. But first…” She smiled  
seductively up at him, then grinned wickedly. “Presents!” She twirled away  
and threw herself down next to the tree, skirts billowing.

Illyria walked closer to Dru, examining her, head tilted. “This half-breed  
is broken.”

“Well, not so much broken. Maybe two sandwiches short of a picnic…”

Illyria turned her ice-blue gaze on him. “I do not understand.”

“I mean, she’s… Dru went through a lot when Angelus turned her. Did something  
to her mind. She doesn’t quite function on the same plane as the rest of  
us.”

Illyria watched as William knelt down beside Drusilla. He laughed with  
her as she joyfully ripped open the packages and pressed a kiss on her forehead  
as she smiled up at him. “Yet you show feelings for her.” Illyria looked  
back at Spike. “Why would you care for a damaged creature such as this?”

Spike crouched down next to Drusilla, watching the play of the firelight  
on her profile with a soft smile. “You’ve no idea. All you saw before? All  
the frustration and anger, the stupid, pointless, dull life I was leading?   
Dru saved me from that.” He reached out a hand and let his fingers brush  
her cheek. Drusilla paused and looked blindly in Spike’s direction, a small  
frown creasing her forehead.

“Dru, love?” William caught her hand. “What is it?”

Drusilla gave a puzzled shake of her head. “I thought a ghost came visiting,”   
she said vaguely. Her mood shifted quickly and she picked up anther parcel,  
flashing an excited smile at William.

“My dark queen.” Spike said quietly. “A century we spent together. Drained  
a continent of blood, we did. People knew our names and feared us. She delivered  
me from a life of tedium and obscurity. She was my salvation.”

“I have something for you.” William stood up and ran from the room, returning  
with an ornate, white birdcage. “Here.” He handed it to Drusilla with a  
shy smile.  
Dru tilted her head and peered at it. “What is it?”

“They’re birds, love.”

“Oh.” Drusilla gave a puzzled frown. “Do they sing?”

“No… not exactly. They’re doves.”

“Doves?” Drusilla looked at the two cowering birds curiously. “What do  
they do?”

“Do? Well, nothing…” William reached over and covered her hands with his.   
“They’re… they’re a symbol of love. Pure, faithful, eternal love,” he looked  
at her intently. “Like mine for you.”

Dru smiled slowly and reached up to cup his cheek. “Oh, my sweet William.”

She looked back at the birds. “I think I would rather have a bird to sing  
sweet songs to me.” She shook the cage and the birds inside fluttered helplessly.  
“Can we eat them?”

“Eat…?” William heaved a disappointed sigh. “I suppose we could. Maybe  
I could find you a nightingale or something.”

“I would like that.” Drusilla dropped the cage and turned her attention   
back to the parcels. She tore apart the brightly wrapped packages eagerly,   
exclaiming over their contents excitedly, discarding them carelessly as she   
quickly lost interest. A jumble of hair ribbons, books, carved wooden animals,   
silk fans, marbles and toy soldiers built up at her side. She picked up the   
final package and began to slowly unwrap it. A blandly smiling bisque face   
appeared from the pink and gold tissue paper. Drusilla unwrapped the doll   
tenderly, reverently. “Oh, William, look!” She held it out to him, handling   
it gently as if it were a child. “Isn’t she beautiful? I had a dolly once,   
you know. Before…” there was a flash of vulnerability, a lost, sad look in  
her dark eyes. “She had a scarlet dress. Mummy made it. She made one for Anne,  
too…” her voice tailed away. “But Anne got eaten.” She said sadly. She gave  
a short, sharp giggle and looked at William blankly.

William took her hand and pressed it to his lips, alarmed at the emptiness  
of her stare. “You shall have more dolls, my love. As many as you desire.”

Drusilla blinked and pressed the doll’s smooth face against hers, her head   
tilted as if she was listening to something. She gave William a slow smile.  
“Dolly say’s her name’s Miss Edith. Say hello to Miss Edith, William.” She  
held out the doll.

William gave a mock bow. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,  
Miss Edith.” He said formally.

Drusilla giggled and hugged the doll to her. She looked down at the torn   
wrapping paper and discarded trinkets with a sigh. “No more. All gone.” She   
pouted and tilted her head to the doll again. “Miss Edith wants a story. Tell  
us a sad song, sweet William.” She settled back against him. “Tell us of  
love and pain and death to cheer us.”

William paused for a moment in thought. He looked down at the discarded   
cage and its terrified occupants, and smiled.

“Oh, no… not the Shakespeare.” Spike winced.

William began.

_“Let the bird of loudest lay,  
On the sole Arabian tree,  
Herald sad and trumpet be,  
To whose sound chaste wings obey._

_But thou shrieking harbinger,  
Foul precurrer of the fiend,  
Augur of the fever's end,  
To this troop come thou not near!”_

“Oh, hell.” Spike muttered, as William droned on. “_The phoenix and the  
turtle dove_. I really was an insufferable prig.”

Illyria watched William, her stare unblinking. “These words. They are what  
you call poetry? It is a feeble thing.” She said scornfully. “It pales beside  
the ballads offered to me in praise and fear.”

“Hey! Hands off the bard!” Spike considered. “Have to say, though, kind   
of agree with the feeble.” He looked at William with a frown.

William finished the poem with self-satisfied flourish.

“Arse.” Spike muttered darkly.

Dru sighed happily. “Poor birds, to die for love! Would you die for me?   
Am I your phoenix, my dove?”

“My bright, beautiful bird.” William’s eyes shone with adoration.

She took his face in her hands and there was a world of sadness in her  
eyes. “Ah, but it is you who will be the phoenix. And you will burn.”

“Only with love for you.” William pulled Drusilla on to his lap. Drusilla   
laughed delightedly and moved to straddle him, wriggling against him seductively.

“Right.” Spike turned to Illyria abruptly. “I think we should go now.”

Illyria watched William and Drusilla curiously, her head tilted. “I desire  
to stay.”

“No. We go. Do your mojo and get us out of here.”

Illyria gave a slight shake of her head. “I will stay.” She moved closer  
to William and Drusilla.

“You bloody well will not! Illyria…!”

William’s hand was sliding ever higher up Drusilla’s thigh, fighting past  
layers of silk and petticoats, finding cool, smooth skin above fine, cashmere   
stockings. Dru giggled against his mouth.

“Naughty William, messing mummy’s satins. What shall I do with my bad,  
_bad_ boy?”

William pulled back and grinned up at her, tongue against his teeth. “I   
should be punished.”

“Oh, yes, you should.” Drusilla teased his lips with hers. “Because you   
are very, _very_ naughty…” Her hand reached down between them, and she   
grabbed the bulge of William’s crotch with a seductive growl. “Such a hungry   
child.” She purred.

“You are about to copulate?” Illyria watched them with the cool detachment  
of a scientist observing a pair of insects involved in some unusual activity.

“Cop… what? No! _Copulate?_” Spike glared at Illyria. “It wasn’t just  
copulation.”

“But why would you do this? There was no point to this action.”

“There was every point to this action to a fucked-up, repressed Victorian  
prig like me.” He frowned thoughtfully. “It was what it was all about -  
from Dru’s bite to this,” he gestured at William and Drusilla. “The release,   
the power becoming a vampire brought. Not that much difference between the   
biting and this.”

“I do not understand. This act is for procreation.” Illyria glanced at  
him briefly. “You can not create life.”

“You really have a lot to learn about human nature, haven’t you? It isn’t   
about making babies.” He paused. “Well it is, obviously, sometimes... But  
it’s a lot more, it’s…” William tipped Drusilla on to her back and settled  
himself between her legs, his mouth hungry on hers. Drusilla wrapped her  
legs around William’s back and Spike groaned. _Bloody hell!_ This was  
getting embarrassing! Now was not the time for a synopsis of the Kinsley  
report. “We go. Now.”

“If I am to learn of your traditions, I should observe.” Illyria’s eyes   
were fixed on the couple on the floor.

“It’s not all about gettin’ laid! There’s other stuff!” Spike cast around  
in his mind for something to distract Illyria from the rapidly developing   
tableau in front of them. “Friendship! Yeah. _Friendship_. Christmas  
is all about friendship – or so they tell me.” he added, muttering.

Illyria turned her gaze back to him. “This…” she gestured vaguely back  
toward William and Drusilla. “This is not friendship?”

Spike snorted. “It’s a lot of things; but not friendship. Shagging your   
mates isn’t normally good practice. Friendship’s different.”

Illyria’s gaze focused on him. “Show me.”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “Me? Don’t think I’ve ever had a friend as such…”   
He frowned uncomfortably under the intensity of her stare. “Do you have to  
look at me like that? I can virtually feel my brain cells freezin’.”

She gave a short nod and her body stiffened with effort. “I see it.”

“What? Who? Oh, about time…” Spike cast a last glance back at William and   
Drusilla, engrossed in each other in the flickering firelight. _Happy Christmas,  
mate_, he thought, as time and space shifted around him again.  


  



	4. On the Third Day of Christmas .... Three French Hens

  


  


  


© Bogwitch

 

  
**On the Third Day of Christmas… Three French Hens, by Hesadevil**

27th December 2003

Spike watched with amusement at his past self, rummaging in the refrigerator   
in Angel’s penthouse apartment at Wolfram and Hart.

“It’s not natural!” Past-Spike said from within its depths.

“What isn’t?” Angel looked up from the TV guide he was studying.

Spike wrenched open the plastic box he'd found on the top shelf.

"Can't I get moment's peace?" growled Angel. "You may not be a ghost any   
more, Spike, but you're still turning up at the most annoying moments. I   
was going to have a nice quiet evening."

Spike ignored Angel's complaint. "_This_," he gestured at the shelves   
of the fridge, bare save for a few cartons of blood. “It’s _meant_ to  
be the season of cheer and goodwill and all that.” He slammed the door shut.  
“There’s bugger all cheer in there.” He spotted a familiar bottle on the  
coffee table and aimed for it. “Now _that’s_ more like it,” he chortled,  
rubbing his hands together.

Spike turned to Illyria as his past self took a swig of Scotch straight  
from the bottle. “You wanted to see friendship? Wrong place, wrong time,  
and _definitely_ the wrong bloke.”

Illyria contemplated the scene as Angel stood up wearily and crossed the   
room to intercept the younger vampire.

“Something deeper lies between you. It is something primal. It has power.   
We shall stay.”

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” Angel asked, sulkily, snatching the   
bottle out of Spike’s grip and marching him towards the elevator. “Isn’t   
it time you were heading for Europe?”

“I’ll go in my own time!”

“Why are you here? Why aren’t you out tormenting Carol singers or whatever   
it is you do at Christmas?”

Spike resisted Angel’s shove towards the exit. “Nah! It’s no fun when  
you can’t stop ‘em singing by killing ‘em. Mind you, if I hear ‘_Frosty  
the bloody Snowman_’ one more time, I might just jump off the wagon.”

“So, again I ask, what are you doing _here_?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

“Nice try. Now – out!” As the elevator doors slid open, Angel made a grab   
for Spike’s collar, but stopped as he caught sight of Fred, weighed down  
with shopping bags on one side and a cardboard carton on the other, waiting  
to exit.

“Hi Guys!” she beamed, not at all concerned by their bickering. “Ready   
for our little party?”

“See!” Spike said smugly, taking some of the bags out of Fred’s hands  
“We’re bunking off from whatever we do here for a bit - in style by the  
looks of it.”

Angel glowered. “_You_ don’t do anything here, Spike. Except annoy  
me. Get out.”

“Actually, tonight is more about celebrating Christmas together than taking   
time out,” said Fred. She gave Angel a look that would have been stern on  
anyone but her, as she shoved her remaining bags into his hands. “Angel,   
let’s put that machismo away for one night. Spike’s our friend.”

Angel deposited the bags onto the coffee table grumbling softly to himself.   
“Not_ my _friend.” He looked up sharply, Fred’s first words finally   
connecting with his brain. “Celebrate together? Us?” He glared at Spike.

Spike continued unpacking the groceries in the kitchenette. “We don’t  
do the Christmas gig, Pet. _Vampires_, remember?” he called. “Hey!  
Is this what I think it is?” He opened a box and popped a piece of crystallised   
ginger into his mouth. “Mmmm, this is _great_,” he said, reaching into   
the box for more.

Fred marched into the kitchen area and snatched the box out of his hand,  
passing it to Angel. “Vampires with souls,” she corrected. “Christmas is  
about being with people you love.”

As Fred spoke, Illyria moved slightly for a better view of both vampires,   
recording their reaction to Fred’s words.

Spike glanced at Angel and raised an eyebrow. “So why are _we _here,   
then?” he said between mouthfuls.

“People _I_ love,” Fred chastised gently. She returned to the main  
room and emptied the contents of the carton she was carrying onto the floor.  
Out tumbled Christmas decorations, fairy lights, garlands, holly wreaths  
and tinsel; all jumbled together in a sparkling heap, shedding glitter and  
needles onto the polished floor.

“I spent Christmas with my folks. Mom baked and Dad found this box in  
the garage.” She shook a garland free from its neighbours. “Wesley went  
to London. We were both with our families,” she continued, unaware of her  
nemesis’s presence in the room. “What did you two do?”

“Got out, got drunk, got laid. Not necessarily in that order,” Spike replied.

Angel dropped his eyes and muttered something unintelligible.

Spike sniggered. “Poofter!”

“What did he say?” Fred asked, looking up from her unpacking.

“The Big Fairy spent it watching telly. ‘_It’s a Wonderful Life_’   
– again! You’re a sad bastard, Angel. Never realised how sad until just now.  
Bet you cried at the end of ‘_Gone with the Wind_’.”

“It’s a fine movie,” Angel folded his arms and glared at Spike. “How did   
_you_ know what followed It’s a Wonderful Life?”

“There is much affection between you both,” remarked Illyria as she watched   
the exchange with fascination.

“_Affection_?” spluttered Spike. “Take that back! Seething resentment   
and mutual hatred more like.”

He watched himself hesitate for a fraction of a second, searching for  
the sharp comeback that never came.

His past self stopped munching on the nibbles, embarrassed that his secret   
had been found out. “_Because_… it always is, innit? That and that big  
green thingy,” he finished lamely.

“_Lorne_?” asked Fred. “Oh. Is he here yet? He’s in charge of entertainment.”

The phone rang, allowing Spike to regain his composure and resume sampling  
the contents of the packages Fred had laid out on the dining table.

Angel picked up the receiver and handed it to her. “It’s Lorne. He’s downstairs   
with Wes and Gunn.”

Fred took the handset and started to discuss arrangements while Angel  
rescued plates of food from Spike’s grasp.

“I think you should all come up straight away,” said Fred, watching the  
two vampires squabble. “I’m in need of Santa’s little helpers right now.”  
She replaced the receiver and regarded Angel and Spike sternly. “Lorne is  
stopping off at his office to pick up the movies he ordered,” she said evenly.  
“We are going to have a _wonderful_ evening. I want it to be the first  
of many Christmases I will share with my favourite boys.”

Present day Spike winced at that statement. Knowing that the Christmas   
they were watching would be her last gave him a painful knot in his chest.   
He ignored it and tried to concentrate on the slight affectionate smile that  
twitched at the corners of Angel’s mouth. Too busy competing with his Grandsire,  
he’d missed that the first time this scene had played out. Maybe the broody  
git had some emotions after all.

Angel’s features softened further as Fred removed her coat, revealing  
a cherry-red off-the-shoulder crushed velvet dress. The full skirt was trimmed  
with white faux fur to match the hat she wore.

“Thought I told you to quit it with the prying into folks feelings.” Spike   
glowered at Illyria.

“Do not presume to judge my actions, half-breed,” replied Illyria icily.   
“I wish to know what power Winifred Burkle had over those who professed to  
love her.”

Fred twirled gracefully; showing off the slender ankles bearing fine silver   
straps that held her precarious looking stiletto shoes in place.

“How’d you keep from falling off those things?” Spike’s past self asked,   
eyeing her appreciatively.

“Years of practice. Working for Angel and living on a knife-edge helps.”   
replied Fred, laughing.

“Never understood women and shoes,” Spike continued, holding out a hand  
and escorting her to a chair. “Buffy did some of her best slaying in the  
most ridiculous boots…” He trailed off, a far away look in his eyes.

Fred reached down to the bag at her feet. “Put these on,” she said softly,   
standing up and holding out her hands.

Spike snapped out of his reverie and blinked.

Fred held out a pair of slippers, each shaped like a polar bear.

Spike frowned. “Why would I do that, Pet?”

“Inappropriate footwear,” replied Fred mischievously, pointing at Spike’s   
scuffed Doc Martins. “It’s Christmas, Spike. Let Blondie Bear out to play.”

“_Blondie Bear_!” exclaimed Spike “Not bloody likely.”

Fred stepped close to him and whispered in his ear. “Forget the Big Bad  
persona for one night. Let someone else see the man I got to know these  
past few months.”

Spike dropped his eyes and shrugged, looking up at her through his lashes.

“After all,” said Fred loudly, smiling slightly at Spike’s bashful face,   
“it’s the season of peace and goodwill to all... creatures...” she trailed  
off uncertainly.

“Great and small?” finished Wesley, stepping from the elevator with Gunn   
beside him. He swayed slightly and held up two bottles of Champagne in each   
hand. "I come bearing gifts of Christmas spirit!”

Spike sniffed the air. “Been into it already then, Percy?” He clapped  
Wesley on the shoulder and picked up the large red sack Wesley had left  
on the elevator floor.

“Just a little.” Wesley grimaced. “Christmas with Father,” he added by   
way of explanation. He glanced at Spike’s feet as the blond vampire shuffled  
over to the sofa with the sack. “Nice –_ bears_,” he sniggered.

“Wesley found succour in the smoke flavoured spirit even before the loss   
of Winifred Burkle,” Illyria commented without emotion. “He did so after  
visiting with his father. I do not...”

“Understand. Yeah, I know.” Spike squinted at her. “Look, Highness, there’s   
a lot of things I don’t understand about relationships. Not sure you’ve chosen  
the right bloke to take you on this winter wonderland tour. P’raps we should  
call it quits, eh?”

Illyria regarded him through unblinking ice-crystal orbs. “Wesley believed   
he was not suitable guide for one such as me,” she said quietly. She swung   
towards the trio surrounding Fred and let her gaze rest on Wesley. “He was   
incorrect.”

Gunn hugged Fred and stood back to appraise her outfit. “Cool Mamma Claus   
look you got goin’ there,” he said appreciatively.

Fred smoothed the folds of her red dress and smiled broadly at him. “Why  
thank you, kind sir. I too come bearing gifts of friendship and lots of  
good things to eat and drink. Lorne’s bringing the movies and music...”

Angel froze. “Music? I don’t have to sing, do I?”

“Baby!” Fred giggled. “Now come and help me put these up.” She handed  
Angel a handful of sparkly garlands and pushed him gently towards the window.

“Drape them over the frame,” she said. “And Spike,” she called over her shoulder,  
“you’ll find some mistletoe in that bag. Hang it up somewhere for me, please?”

“Only if I get first kiss,” Spike replied, “as a reward for looking a  
right berk in these.”

“Back off Blondie Bear,” said Gunn, sniggering. “The queue starts here.  
I got priority rights – right Fred?”

Fred blushed and glanced at Wesley. “Maybe the mistletoe wasn’t such a   
good idea,” she stammered. “Not if it...”

The sound of the elevator doors interrupted her and all activity in the  
room ceased at the sight of the apparition that stepped out.

“It’s the bloody Grinch!” exclaimed Spike, bouncing over to unburden Lorne   
of the many articles he was carrying.

“And seasons greetings to you too, oh formerly evil one.” Lorne grinned  
at the sight of Spike’s feet. “You think I’ve overdone the green?” he asked   
turning to Fred in concern. “I was trying for Dudley’s elf  
look... Dudley Moore?” he explained at Angel’s blank expression. “‘_Santa   
Claus the Movie_’?”

Angel shook his head.

“Angelcakes, are you in for a treat! I’ve brought the very best of the   
turkeys from yesteryear.”

“I thought turkey was Thanksgiving?” Angel said, bemused.

“Metaphorical turkey, Dumbo,” Spike snorted.

Angel held up his hands in surrender. He was outnumbered. “I’ll just finish  
doing this then,” he muttered, opening a bottle of champagne and half filling   
two glasses from the first gush of foam.

“Dumbo! My all time favourite,” Fred squealed. “You remembered it, didn’t   
you Lorne?”

“Would I ever let my best girl down?” Lorne put his arm around Fred and  
led her to the sofa, sweeping up the two glasses on their way past the  
table. “Uncle Lorne has brought gems as well as turkeys, Snow White, Bambi  
and Dumbo.”

Fred kissed his cheek, then looked over at Angel. “Finished with the sparklies?”

Angel looked at the number of DVDs Lorne had handed Spike. “It’s going   
to be a long night,” he sighed.

Gunn emerged from the kitchen carrying a stack of crockery. Angel helped   
him pile the serving dishes high with the delights Fred had brought. Spike  
looked over Angel’s shoulder and grabbed a handful of home-baked Christmas   
figures.

“Gingerbread! I haven’t had this in a while. Have a bite, Angel,” he said,   
offering him a reindeer with a cherry nose.

“No thanks,” said Angel. “I’m not a gingerbread kinda guy, _Blondie  
Bear_.”

“But there’s an Angel, Angel!” Spike smirked. He held up an Angel shaped   
cookie and waved it in his face.

“Stop that!” Angel snarled.

“Make me,” Spike taunted. “On second thoughts, best I just put you out   
of your misery.” He held up the baked figure and bit its head off.

Lorne left the sofa and stood between the two vampires. “Hey, let’s take   
it down a notch or three. Get everyone back into the Christmas spirit.”

“Yes please,” said Wesley holding out his glass. “Top her up!”

Angel sank onto the sofa beside Fred. “You know this wasn’t ever going   
to work, don’t you? Not with Spike here.”

Fred’s face fell. “Can’t you two make an effort?” she asked, looking across   
at Spike who nodded. “For me?”

“Don’t bother, Pet,” Spike snorted as he plonked himself onto the other  
side of Fred. “Peaches isn’t going to put himself out to be nice to me  
just ‘cos you’re here.”

Fred sighed. “You two really are the most stubborn, hard headed...”

Exasperated, she got up and grabbed a champagne bottle. She pulled the   
cork out too sharply and it flew across the room, narrowly missing Angel   
and came to rest in Wesley’s whiskey.

“Hey!” Wesley cried. “Can’t a chap have a quiet drink without being attacked?”

“Sorry! I was aiming for these two.” She gestured at Spike and Angel,  
who both managed to look remarkably innocent. She turned her back on them  
and poured herself another glass of champagne.

Spike glanced at Angel and winced. “But you love us both, right Pet? ‘Specially   
me... After I wore the slippers an’ all?” he asked.

“Not at the moment.” Fred remained standing, with her back to them.

Angel studied her slight figure and thought for a second. “What do we  
do first, Lorne – turkey or gem?”

Fred turned back and smiled gratefully at him. “Let’s start with a turkey,”   
she said, draining her glass. “‘_Santa Claus the Movie_’.”

“Bloody Dudley Moore?” Wesley sank into the nearest armchair. “I need  
another drink,” he groaned, reaching for the Laphroaig again.

Gunn stopped piling chocolate fudge squares onto the mountain of confectionery   
already on his plate and grabbed a glass of champagne. “What you got against   
the little guy, Wes? He’s funny.”

Wesley shot him a glance that would have frozen a lesser man where he  
sat. “Dudley was just annoying.”

“Like Spike.” Angel eyed the other vampire. “A short, annoying, Goon.”

“Dudley Moore wasn’t a Goon,” Spike smirked. “But he was successful and  
charming. Great with the ladies...”

“You’re not ‘great with the ladies’. They’re always…”

Fred laid a hand on Angel’s shoulder to interrupt him. “Angel,” she said   
softly.

“This chocolate fudge is great,” Gunn said through a mouthful, breaking  
the tension. “Want some Spike?”

Spike glanced at Gunn. Then his eyes met Fred’s and narrowed. He studied   
the two gingerbread figures in his hand; a bear and a headless angel. Spike  
looked questioningly at his Grandsire.

Angel returned his gaze with a twitch of his eyebrows and a small sigh.  
He patted Fred’s hand and took the glass of champagne she held out to him.

Illyria moved closer to the sofa. “Something has changed,” she said peering   
at Spike. She held her fingers to her temple and closed her eyes, concentrating.   
“There’s my boys,” she said in Fred’s voice.

“Don’t_ do _that,” Spike snapped. He watched as his past self shifted   
slightly on the sofa, making more room for Fred to resume her place between   
himself and Angel.

Fred gave them a lopsided smile. “There’s my boys,” she said, taking a   
bite out of the head of the gingerbread bear in Spike’s hand and gesturing   
at the remains of the Angel. “You’re even now,” she giggled.

“This frail human has wrought a change,” Illyria observed. “And yet she  
has done nothing of significance.”

“You’re wrong there,” Spike growled.

Angel eyed Fred with growing concern. “Are you alright, Fred? You seem   
a little...”

“Tipsy?” she snorted. “I am! It’s the bubbles that do it. They make the  
alcohol travel faster, get the endorphins going again.” She bounced up  
again and tottered over to the table. “Chocolate! You can’t have champagne  
without chocolate. Endorphins need both to work properly, you know.” She  
winked at Spike.

“Does that work for vampires too?” Spike asked, glancing at Angel and  
getting to his feet.

“All in favour of endorphins, say aye,” cried Wesley from the depths of  
his glass. “Put some music on.” He lurched to his feet. “Care to dance  
before the film begins, milady?” He held out his hand to Fred.

“Only if you promise not to crush my toes again,” Fred giggled. She clung   
to Wesley and they swayed together in the centre of the room, oblivious to  
the others, or the fact that there was no music accompanying their dance.

Angel groaned. “Oh great. One drunken Englishman, two sartorially challenged   
demons, three movies I never want to see - ever again...”

“Not letting you count to twelve, Mr Gloom and Doom,” said Spike emphatically.   
“It’ll spoil the mood.” He stepped back, allowing Angel a clear view of the  
room. It had been transformed. Votive lights cast a soft glow on the festive  
treats laid out on the table. Piles of gingerbread Angels, snowmen, elves  
and reindeer jostled for space with honeyed dates, chocolate covered nuts  
and crystallised ginger. Champagne glasses filled with gently fizzing liquid  
sparkled in the candlelight. Gunn sat looking over Lorne’s shoulder, studying  
the DVD cover of ‘Bambi’. And, in the centre of the room, still entwined  
in each other’s arms, Fred and Wesley whirled slowly under the mistletoe.

“Bugger it Blue,” said Spike hoarsely. “Enough’s enough. Take me back.   
I need a drink.”

“You wish to experience the consolation of smoky spirits, just as Wesley  
did.” Illyria scrutinised his face. “I see something new in you.”

Spike caved. “Not gonna admit this to anyone else, Frosty, but I miss  
‘em. Not just them.” He gestured at the figures frozen in time in front  
of him. “I miss the Bit... and Buffy and… Okay, especially Buffy,” he swallowed   
hard, blinking back unshed tears. “I miss every one of ‘em,” he whispered.

Illyria moved swiftly through the room and picked up the bottle of Laphroaig   
and two tumblers.

Spike raised his eyebrows. “But I thought...”

“My powers are limited here.” Illyria said and poured two measures of  
the golden liquid and handed a glass to him. “I strain to hold this journey  
together, but some things I can still control. An incantation is customary?”

“A toast,” Spike corrected. He raised his glass. “To absent friends.”

“Absent friends,” Illyria echoed.

They threw the contents of their glasses down in one gulp.

Illyria stared at Spike. “Frosty?”

“Not so much, you’re warming up,” Spike conceded. “Smokey spirit thaws   
a body somewhat,” he added, pointing at Wesley staggering across the room   
searching for the whisky bottle.

Wesley peered under the coffee table and then raised a pair of bleary  
eyes to Gunn, sprawled the armchair beside it. “You seen the Laphroaig,  
Charles? Could’ve sworn I left it...”

Gunn waved at the television where Illyria had placed the now empty bottle.

Wesley lurched over to it. “Now, how’d it get up there?”

“Fairies?” snickered Spike from the depths of the sofa.

Illyria and Spike watched as the room gradually settled down into a companionable   
silence fuelled by the mellowing effects of alcohol, the soporific effect   
of Lorne’s ‘turkeys’ and the calm determination of Fred to pour seasonal   
oil on troubled waters.

Fred. He looked down at her, relaxing on the sofa, one hand resting on   
Angel’s arm, the other clasped in his past-self’s hand. He found himself   
swallowing a hard lump in his throat and glanced up at Illyria, biting down   
a sudden searing flash of anger. _So bloody unfair_!

Illyria looked at him, considering. “You feel sadness.”

“Yeah, I feel sadness.”

“Because you feel the lack of these people from your past.” She tilted   
her head, bird-like, and peered at him.

“Like I said, not just them.”

Illyria considered. “I sense another for whom you hold affection. But  
it is affection unlike that for the others.”

“No! No, Illyria, enough. Take us back.”

Illyria ignored him. “I will understand this.” And once again time and   
space blurred.  
  


  


  



	5. On the Fourth Day of Christmas ..... Four Calling Birds

  


 

  


© Bogwitch  


**On the Fourth Day of Christmas… Four Calling Birds, by   
Cass**

**_28th December 2003_**

“Die, creature of the night!” The snarling words greeted Spike as the  
disconcerting shifting of time began to centre on their destination. Off  
guard and disorientated, he crouched into fighting stance, warily searching  
for the direction of the threat.

As his surroundings came into clearer focus, he glanced quickly around,  
taking in the slightly shabby decoration, the mismatched assortment of furniture   
and the eclectic collection of objects arranged haphazardly on shelves and  
tables. It was all vaguely familiar. Come to think of it, the voice had  
sounded familiar, too. He straightened up.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Andrew, do you have to?” A long-suffering female   
voice focused his attention on the sofa.

He felt a disconcerting tug in his chest, a sudden overwhelming rush of  
affection. “Nibblet.” he said softly.

She was sitting on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her, flicking through   
a magazine. She’d cut her hair, he noticed, the long, straight tresses trimmed   
to a sleek, shoulder-skimming bob. He could hardly believe the change a few  
short months had made in her. The leggy, awkward child he’d helped break   
into the Magic Box, the broken girl he’d guarded and fretted over during the  
long months following Buffy’s fall from the tower, the uncertain teenager   
who had struggled to find her place among the potentials – they had gone.   
Little bit was all grown up. He felt an absurd surge of pride.

Illyria examined Dawn coolly. “This is the one that holds your affection.   
She was your lover?”

“No. _No_!” Spike frowned at Illyria. “She’s… Buffy’s sister. She’s   
a friend, is all. Or she was a friend… a sort of friend…” his voice tailed   
away. _If you hurt my sister at all... touch her... you're gonna wake up  
on fire_. He winced.

Illyria watched the play of emotions on his face with detached interest.   
“She looks a feeble creature to instil so much feeling.”

“Well, it just shows what you know.” Spike glared at her.

Illyria’s gaze shifted. A spark of interest flashed in the coldness of   
her eyes. “This one plays the game. It is like the other - pointless and   
annoying. Yet still he plays.” She tilted her head at the screen, examining   
the luridly coloured picture intently. “Where is the Crash Bandicoot?”

Spike dragged his eyes away from Dawn. He looked in the direction of Illyria’s   
gaze and snorted. “Pointless and annoyin’. Yeah, just about sums him up.”

Andrew concentrated hard on the screen in front of him, controller grasped   
tightly in his hands, thumbs working rapidly. “I am The Demonslayer, bright   
lord of the kingdom of Garth. Evil cowers before me! Ha! Take that! Oh.”   
He looked at the television in disbelief. “Hey! That’s no fair! A blue dragon   
always trumps a werewolf!” He put down the controller with a pout. “They   
killed my army.”

“He has an army?” Illyria looked at Andrew with more interest. “One such   
as this, commands a legion of warriors?”

“Only in his imagination.” Spike shook his head. “It’s a game, Bluebell.   
Not that many people really have armies and dragons at their disposal. Present   
company excepted.”

“He considers the destruction of armies a game?”

“Yeah. It’s fun when it’s not real, you know. Or maybe you prefer it when   
it is.” Spike added.

“Oh, good. You’re dead.” Dawn sighed. “Maybe we could do something else  
then? I’m kinda bored.”

“Mmmm…” Andrew frowned distractedly. “Hey, maybe if I use the Gem of Orcadia…”  
he picked up the controller again and once more focused his attention on   
the screen.

“Andrew, I’m _bored_…” Dawn whined. Spike grimaced. Maybe she wasn’t   
so grown up after all.

There was a moment silence, then Andrew gave a whoop of delight. “That’s   
it! I should’ve thought of it before! Take that, denizens of the dark lord!”

“He takes great delight in such a trivial and pointless thing.” Illyria  
tilted her head at Andrew curiously.

“Well, it’s fun.” Spike shrugged. “You know, _fun_?”

Illyria looked at him blankly.

“Well, maybe not.” he conceded.

There was a knock on the door. Dawn looked at Andrew. “That’ll be for  
you again.” She folded her arms.

“Shouldn’t think so.” Andrew’s attention was focused on the screen.

“Well, it was the last time someone came calling. Caprice and Isabella,  
and that Maria. ‘Can Andrew come out and play?’” Dawn simpered. “Don’t  
know what they see in you.” She muttered.

“Me neither.” Spike grunted. “Don’t suppose the boy knows what to do with   
one bird, let alone three of them.”

“Try your puny werewolves on my dragon _now_, you traitor…” Andrew  
growled at the screen. Dawn shook her head. “If this is another of your  
girlfriends...”

“_Buon Natale_!” The door opened on a dark haired woman dressed in  
an expensively tailored black coat, which was open to reveal a dangerously  
low cut dress. “I am so glad I caught you at ‘ome!” She smiled expansively  
at Dawn.

Spike peered past Dawn. “Hey!” he said in surprise. “That’s what’s-her-name.   
I recognise the…” his eyes were drawn inexorably to her well-displayed cleavage.   
They heaved as she breathed, magically remaining gravity defying, despite   
no obvious support. He shook himself and dragged his eyes away. “Well, whatever.   
What the hell is _she_ doing here?”

Dawn gave the woman a puzzled frown. “Umm… hello?”

“And ‘ello to you, too! My name is Ilona. I am the niece of Signora Gambino   
\- your _concierge_, _si_? So, my aunt she is thinking, you are   
new to _Roma_, and maybe you do not know so many people and you are missing  
your family – so far away from home at this time of year – is _so_

sad! She worry, you know? But she ‘as gone back to her village for the ‘olidays   
and cannot be here herself, so, I come to visit and say ciao and bring you   
a leetle Italian hospitality!” She held up the bag.

“Oh! Right!” Dawn gave her a bemused smile.

“My aunt, she mentioned me, no?”

“No… I mean, yes!” Dawn shook her head.

“So. I can come in maybe?” Ilona tilted her head with a smile.

“Sorry! Of course! Please…” she stepped aside to let Ilona enter the apartment.

“Well, that’s believable, I don’t think.” Spike snorted. “She’s the CEO  
of Wolfram and Hart!”

“CEO?” Illyria tilted her head at Ilona.

“Head honcho. Like Angel, only…” his eyes wandered back to Ilona’s chest.   
He smirked. “…different. Can’t see her being the type to make social calls.   
Leastways, not unless she’s after something.” He moved closer to Ilona. “Keepin’

a careful eye on you, pet.” He told her breasts.

“You lust after this CEO.” Illyria observed dispassionately.

“No!” Spike frowned at her, then shrugged. “Well, yeah… she’s got certain…   
attractions.”

“Attractions?” Illyria examined Ilona carefully. “Your race wastes much  
energy in this process of attraction. It distracts from what is important.”  
She turned away. “Why would the Wolf, Ram and Hart concern themselves over  
this insignificant creature?” Illyria peered at Dawn more closely.

“That, as they say, is the question.” Spike narrowed his eyes at Ilona.

Ilona came inside and looked around appraisingly. “Oh, you have a very   
nice apartment. You have made it very nice.” She took off her coat and put   
it and her bag down on the floor. She turned to Andrew with a smile.

“_Buon Natale_!” She spread her arms, walked over to the sofa, bent   
and kissed him on each cheek. The manoeuvre brought her cleavage into very   
close proximity to Andrew’s face and he froze, eyes wide like a deer in headlights,  
an alarmed grin firmly in place. “And you are…?”

The question hung on the air for an inordinately long time. Andrew’s glazed  
gaze was fixed on Ilona’s breasts and showed no sign of moving any time  
soon. The ability to speak seemed to have deserted him.

“Andrew.” Dawn rolled her eyes. “His name is Andrew.”

“Andrew.” Ilona purred. “Is very good to meet you.”

Andrew gave a nervous giggle and earned another eye roll from Dawn.

Ilona’s gaze swept around the apartment, as if searching for something.  
“So, there is another, I think? A blonde girl…” She turned back to Dawn.

“Buffy… my sister.”

“Ah, _si_? Boofy! Is an… _unusual_ name. So, Boofy she is not  
‘ere?” Ilona’s voice was carefully neutral.

Spike watched her expression closely. “She’s after Buffy.” he narrowed   
his eyes at her. “Bet that’s what it is. Checking out how the land lays with  
the new slayer in town.”

“She’s out.” Dawn thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans and gave   
the trademark pout. “With her ancient woobie.”

“Woobie?” Ilona looked at her with a puzzled frown.

“Boyfriend… I suppose.” Dawn translated. “Creep.” She muttered under her   
breath.

Spike grinned. “That’s my girl.”

“It pleases you that this one does not care for her sister’s…” Illyria   
hesitated. “_Woobie_.”

“Oh, yeah.” Spike gave a tight smile. “Pleases me mightily. Little bit’s   
a good judge of character – better than her sister, as it turns out.”

“Then this Buffy is the one for whom you have feelings.” Illyria examined  
Dawn more closely. “You care for this one because she is her sister.”

“No.” Spike frowned. “Not that. Look, I watched out for Dawn once, while   
Buffy was… away. She needed takin’ care of.””

“Why would you care for her? She is not your kin.”

“I made a promise.”

“To your gods?”

“No, not exactly. To Buffy. Look, bluebell, it’s… kinda complicated.”

Spike shook his head. _Not going there, not now_. “Anyways, it wasn’t  
just the promise. The little bit – you said she wasn’t kin, and yeah, OK,  
she wasn’t but she’s the nearest thing to a little sister I’ve had. I looked   
out for her because…” he shrugged uncomfortably “I cared, OK?”

“There is little logic in your argument. Protecting this one was of no   
benefit to you.”

“I wasn’t out for benefit.” Spike glared at her. “It isn’t always about  
what you get out of it.”

“Woobie.” Ilona gave a throaty chuckle. “I must remember that word. You  
Americans, huh? Always making the new words! Woobie.” She chuckled again  
and glanced around the apartment. Her eyes fell on the carved wood nativity  
scene sitting next to a small, colourfully decorated Christmas tree. It was  
Dawn’s current pride and joy, and she’d flirted outrageously with the stallholder  
to get the delicately painted figure for a good price. “Oh! You have made  
_il presepe_! _Bello_!” Ilona picked up one of the figures.  
She gave a puzzled frown. “But this angel, he is unlike any angel I have  
seen before.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “That’s because he’s Obi Wan Kenobi. Andrew made   
the wings.”

“Gabriel fell into the candle. He kinda got charred.” Andrew gave a sheepish   
grin.

A fleeting puzzled frown creased Ilona’s forehead. “Ah, _si_? He  
was trying to be Icarus, maybe?” She laughed. “You are a very clever and  
resourceful man I think, Andrew.” She replaced the figure gently.

“He makes a very fine angel.”

Andrew glowed.

Dawn glared at him. “He would probably have survived if you hadn’t scrubbed   
him with the nail-brush.” She muttered.

“No matter!” Ilona picked up a glazed vase from a shelf. “Ah, _si bella_!  
Very pretty. This pottery, she is made in my local village. It make me  
think of ‘ome!” She replaced the vase on the shelf, positioning it carefully,   
and turned with a smile. “Now.” She crossed back to the sofa and sat next   
to Dawn. “Is time for presents!

Spike examined the vase suspiciously. “Hey! She’s put something in the   
corner!” He peered at the shelf more closely “Some sort of little electronic   
gizmo. Told you she was after something. Only bloody well bugged the place,   
hasn’t she! The crafty...”

Ilona picked up her bag. “I am like _La Belfana_, no?” Her chuckle  
was met with blank stares. “You ‘ave not ‘eard of _La Belfana_? No?  
_Ammàzzete_! _La Belfana_ she is the witch who  
bring the presents to the good children of Italia. OK, is a leetle early  
maybe. She come on _La Festa dell'Epifania_ – ‘ow you say… the epiphany…

but, no matter! Is never too early for presents!” she rummaged in the bag.  
“I ‘ave brought you _il torrone_,“ she placed a slab of nougat studded  
with dried fruits and nuts on the coffee table, “and also _il panforte_  
\- ah, is my favourite! We make a special gingerbread with the hazelnut and  
the honey and almonds… _Magnifico_!” A box of the biscuits joined  
the nougat. “Always they contain nuts! You know why, huh?” She gave Andrew  
a wink. “It is for the fertility! To bring you strong seed and many babies!”

Andrew blanched. “I have a nut allergy.” He said weakly.

“Figures.” Dawn snorted.

Ilona reached into the bag once more. “And I bring…” she produced a bottle   
with a flourish. “_Prosecco_! What could be better, huh?”

Dawn looked at the bottle appreciatively. “I’ll get the glasses.”

Ilona dug into her bag again. “And I will get… this.” She brought out  
a plastic container. “You ‘ave tried _cicerata_? No? Oh, but is so  
good! Eet is a traditional sweet for the Christmastime ’ere in _Roma_.  
This ‘ere my aunt made.”

Dawn came back with the glasses and corkscrew and peered at the small,   
round balls suspiciously. “What’s in it?”

“Oh, only good things – almonds, candied fruit, honey, oranges…” Ilona   
opened the bottle expertly and poured them each a glass of wine. “Try!”

Dawn took one of the balls. “Wow! That is good!”

Spike watched Ilona suspiciously. “You think she’s put something in them?   
Drugs or something?”

Illyria watched the expression of pleasure on Dawn’s face. “This is peasant   
food. Yet she finds delight in it.”

“See?” Ilona handed the container to Andrew. “And with the wine is _perfetto_,   
no?”

Dawn took a sip of the wine. “Oh! It’s sweet! I didn’t know wine came  
in sweet! Mmm… lovely!” She downed half the glass and started on the gingerbread.

Ilona watched her indulgently. “So, tell me what you ‘ave been doing.  
You ‘ave been exploring Roma?”

“A little. We went to the Christmas markets. They were so quaint! So many   
cute things! That’s where I bought the crib.”

“Ah, _si_ the markets are much fun! And did you see the _Zampognari_   
and _Pifferai_? The bagpipers and flute players? No? Oh, is a shame!   
They are very colourful. They live in the Abruzzi mountains and then at Christmas  
they come to _Roma_ to entertain the peoples. Ah, you should see!”

Ilona considered. “We go! I show you! Come! Come!” she stood up and picked  
up her coat. “You must wrap up warmly – it is like the _giornate della  
merla_ – the days of the blackbird. Very cold!”

“OK!” Dawn gave a delighted smile and downed the last of her wine. She   
stood up a little unsteadily, giggled and got her coat. Andrew crammed a   
handful of the cicerata into his mouth, grabbed a few panforte and followed   
the two women to the door.

“Isn’t this better than Playstation?” Dawn hooked her arm through his  
and reached up to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. Andrew blushed with  
pleasure.

“So!” Ilona smiled at them. “We are ready, yes? Let us go… and on the  
way, you must tell me _all_ about yourselves…”

Spike watched the door close with a frown. “I don’t trust her.” He picked   
up one of the _cicerata_, sniffed it suspiciously, then put it in his   
mouth. “Hey! These _are_ good! Wanna try?”

Illyria ignored him completely. She was clearly puzzled. “They take delight   
in such small and insignificant things.”

“Well, sometimes that’s all you’ve got. There’s a saying – ‘money can’t  
buy you happiness’.” He shrugged “‘course it does buy you a better class  
of misery.”

“I had wealth beyond mortal comprehension; treasuries filled with tributes   
from many universes, treasures from the destruction of my enemies.”

“Yeah, but were you happy? Don’t answer that. Humans – we’re odd sorts.  
Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much money you hurl at something, it’s the  
little things you remember. People forget what it’s all about, go over the  
top…”

“I tire of frugality.” Illyria looked around the room disdainfully. “I   
wish to see a festival more fitting of my status.”

“Don’t know that many rich gits.” Spike shrugged. “Besides, not rightly  
sure I’m ready to go yet. I vote we go after them, see what the evil empire  
wants with the slayer.”

“Your slayer is no concern of mine.”

“Well, she’s a concern of _mine_.” Spike squared up to Illyria. “I’m   
stayin’.”

Illyria’s cold gaze was pure disdain. “You defy me?”

“Well, yeah, as it happens.” Spike bit down on the feeling he was possibly   
going to regret this.

“You have no choice.” She looked at him imperiously.

“Have too. You’ve been picking up on stuff in my noggin for this magical  
mystery tour of yours. Well, I’m not gonna let you. I’ll think of something  
else.”

“You presume your mind is strong enough to refuse my will?” Illyria focused   
her mind on his. “You are a worm.”

“Well I’m a worm with the agenda for this little jaunt. So, I’m not going   
to think about…”

Illyria’s gaze focused. “I see it.”

“You do? Bugger.” He took a last look around the apartment and sighed.   
“This should be interesting.” Spike took a deep breath and prepared to do   
the Timewarp again.

  
  
  
  


  



	6. On the Fifth Day of Christmas ..... Five Gold Rings

  


© Bogwitch

**On the Fifth Day of Christmas… Five Gold Rings,   
by Bogwitch**

_29th December 1997_

When the scene around them changed again, they were standing in the expansive   
hallway of a rich modern household, but not one that Spike had ever seen   
before. Like everywhere else they had been on their little trip, the room   
was adorned for the holidays, but there was no simple, vibrant Christmas here,  
with colours merrily clashing together in a riot of tinsels and fairy lights  
just for fun – this was a serious statement. Extravagantly themed in gold  
and silver, festoons of lush garland dominated the walls and dissected the  
ceiling, meeting in the centre atop a huge floral centrepiece of white roses  
and gold-sprayed foliage. Beside Illyria, a gigantic Christmas tree - easily  
the largest they’d seen so far - spread its heavily adorned branches wide,  
not daring to drop a single needle upon the polished marble floor.

“I’ve never seen this place before.” Spike said as he looked about the   
unfamiliar room. “It’s right posh.”

Illyria turned her head. “You mentioned ‘rich gits’. I understood you  
to mean those who have much wealth. My Wesley talked of Angel’s woman, for   
whom they all grieved before I inhabited this shell. She will explain the   
extravagance of this ‘Christmas’.”

“Right.” Spike replied, still looking around. “I think she’ll do a bang  
up job.”

The doorbell announced the caller at the enormous white door, donging  
with all the gravitas that would be expected of the entranceway to such  
a large house.

Then a familiar voice yelled. “Just a second!”

“Cordelia,” Spike said. “How far did we go back? And what about Buffy?   
You can’t just leave her to that siren!”

Illyria looked at him. “Linear time has no meaning to me. We come to the   
time that best serves our purpose. The events you wish to pursue cannot be  
altered.”

Spike frowned, still angry but knowing he was defeated for now. He would   
just have to accept it and find out what he could when they got back to the  
motel. “As long as we don’t end up with the dinosaurs, Bluebell,” he agreed.  
“Don’t fancy fighting a herd of velociraptors right now, thanks.”

As usual when he was flippant, Illyria ignored his comment. “Angel’s woman   
died more recently.”

“Just a bit. You’re right though; let’s watch another chit that snuffed  
it in the line of duty.”

“Battle will see the fall of many warriors.” Illyria told him gravely.

Spike shrugged sadly. “Yeah. Took a few out myself.”

“This grieves you.”

“Damn right it does, Illyria.” Spike snapped. “Some of us _have_

emotions, you know.”

She turned away. “I have seen much grief since I came to this world, most  
of all for the one called Winifred Burkle. It revolts me, sickening inside   
like puke, yet it still comes.”  
“Well, it ain’t nice for us either.” Spike scowled at her. “But we deal  
with it.”

The doorbell rang again, interrupting their talk and allowing Spike’s  
temper to cool, as he was distracted from his point. This time, they heard  
the hurried click of high-heeled shoes trotting along the landing above  
them. A moment later, a young Cordelia clattered down the stairs in a rush,  
adjusting her smart new top and skirt as she went. She threw the door open  
so quickly, she caused the huge wreath hanging from it to swing precariously  
on its fitting and come close to falling off.

“Harmony!” Cordelia exclaimed, but she was obviously hoping that her visitor   
was someone else - probably a boy. “Good to see you!”

“Oh Bugger,” said Spike, as he unconsciously moved to put Illyria between   
him and his former bit of fluff. He looked at Illyria and said with little   
of his previous venom. “I think you like tormenting me.”

Illyria, of course, said nothing in reply.

Harmony bounced in the doorway. “Cordy! Oh my god, you just _have_  
to see what I got for Christmas!”

“Great!” Cordelia gave Harmony a fake smile that shone with a brilliant  
wattage and let the other girl in.

“This human became the half breed known as Harmony.” Illyria observed.

“Yeah, can’t seem to escape the daft bint.” Spike sneered in sympathy.

“And nor can Cordelia by the look of it.”

Illyria seemed to think for a moment. “Yet you have copulated with this  
‘bint’.”

Spike looked at Illyria sharply. “How’d you know about that?”

“The Half Breed talks without pause. She is very informative. I have learned  
much from her tireless talk.” Illyria watched as the two girls exchanged   
‘Christmas hugs’. “She calls you by this name ‘Blondie Bear’, but I am unaware   
of its significance.”

“It’s a sort of… pet name.” Spike looked pained. “She thought it was cute.”

Illyria narrowed her brows. “You are _my_ pet.”

“Different sort of pet.”

“She lusts after you, even as you find disgust in her company.”

Spike sighed. “You take all the romance out of it.”

Illyria tilted her head. “There is romance?”

Spike shook his head. “Just an expression, Blue. You know, a guy gets  
lonely, and sometimes he looks for any kind of company he can get… Even  
Harmony.”

Illyria processed that and came to a conclusion. “This explains the Slayer.”

  
“No, Buffy is different. _She’s_ special.” Spike pointed a finger   
at Illyria. “I’m not talking about this.”

“You miss her.” Illyria replied as she started to follow the two girls   
up the stairs.

“Like anything. But she’s part of my past now. I’m moving on.” He hoped  
he sounded more convinced than he felt. He been trying, really he had,  
but he just hadn’t met anyone suitable yet.

“Yes, your motorcycle takes us many places.” Illyria said, missing his   
point completely.

“Yeah, just like that.” Spike replied, relieved at the reprieve.

“Good. I shall remember.” Illyria said with finality.

They stopped outside a bedroom door, waiting for Cordelia to guide Harmony  
inside, and then followed her through, so that the door was closed behind   
them. Spike looked the new room over. It was the bedroom of an All American   
Princess on the cusp of her womanhood. Pretty prints hung from walls painted   
in a dark, stylish pink; tables, piled with schoolbooks and cheerleading   
gear, matched a dramatic wooden bed, which was beautifully made up without   
a wrinkle on the perfectly matched coverlet. Opposite the bed, next to the   
door that was ajar to reveal an enormous walk in wardrobe, a large dressing   
table stood with pride of place, its mirror rimmed with mementos and photographs.

Harmony was jiggling with excitement. “Ryan bought me a ring! Oh my god!   
Isn’t it _wonderful_?” She shoved her hand under Cordelia’s face so   
that she could inspect the ring in question – a large peridot in a narrow   
gold band.

“Who’s he?” Cordelia asked her bluntly.

Harmony dismissed her airily, trying to cover being caught out. “Oh, he  
doesn’t go to Sunnydale. He... He goes to school in… L.A!”

“Right.” Cordelia nodded, unconvinced. Spike wasn’t either, but he’d always  
tuned out Harmony’s unlikely stories about former boyfriends or shopping.

“He’s a friend of my cousin’s?” Harmony added hopefully. “But look, the  
ring!”

Cordelia took Harmony’s hand and gave it a critical inspection. “Hmmm.   
Nice.”

Cordelia’s less than enthusiastic reaction seemed to sail over Harmony’s   
head. She stretched out her fingers and admired the glint of the gem with   
a happy smile. “So what did you get? Did Damon get you anything?”

“Funny that, he got me a ring too. Not exactly original.”

Harmony gushed. “Show me! Show me!”

“Okay…” Cordelia picked out her jewellery box from the collection of expensive  
face creams, silver-backed hairbrushes, and bottles of designer perfumes   
that cluttered the surface of the dressing table. Many were clearly new and  
obviously hadn’t even been opened. She brought it over to where Harmony had  
settled on the bed and sat down next to the other girl.

They started to search though the box. “Damon gave this one to me,” Cordelia   
held up a diamond ring that she’d found during their rummage. Its large stones  
sparkled as the muted bedroom lighting reflected off their facets. “It cost  
$2000.”

“He really likes you,” Harmony said, taking the ring with some reverence.   
“Do you think you’ll date him?”

“Women and jewellery!” Spike snorted. “Used to fetch enough of the damn  
stuff for Dru, it seemed to please her – most of the time. Bet even you  
liked the odd bauble back in the day.”

“I said my treasuries were filled with tributes to my greatness...”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spike smirked at her. “Thought so. Had a few rings myself  
once. Found that girls think ‘em sexy on a bloke. Best one I had was the  
Gem of Amara though, but that’s another story.”

“You shall tell me sometime.” Illyria said automatically, but with little   
real interest. Her focus was on the two women fawning over expensive trinkets.   
“What is the significance of such adornment?”

“Givin’ a ring has some sort of special significance to birds, and then  
it has to be a certain bloody type. I don’t see what the fuss is about,”  
Spike didn’t really understand the love the girl’s had of the jewellery -  
a ring was a ring. “It’s not exactly the _One Ring_ is it?”

Illyria pondered this. “The ‘One Ring’?”

“_One ring to rule the world…_ But life’s too short for an explanation   
of that one, pet.” Spike smiled. “Remind me to sit you down in front of the  
_Lord of the Rings_ sometime. You’ll like that, lots of fightin’   
in it.”

“I ruled because I was feared and my enemies were crushed under my heel.   
I needed no ring to enforce my will.”

“So you have seen it then?” Spike smiled.

“Wesley too thought it would entertain me. I missed the screams of the   
battlefield.”

Cordelia took the ring back from Harmony and answered her question. “I   
don’t know; his daddy owns Sunnydale Construction. He can afford better than  
that.”

“Uh huh.” Harmony nodded in agreement. “He _so_ could.”

“And that one? Who gave you that?” Harmony pointed to another ring in  
the box, a far more modest one.

“Xander Harris, can you believe that?” Cordelia paled, caught out in the  
receipt of a present from someone she knew Harmony would think she should  
not have accepted presents from in the first place – and a ring at that.  
She snapped the box shut as if to stop Harmony asking any more awkward questions.  
“Like I’d ever go out with him anyway.”

“That’s gross. Like you would _ever_.” Harmony looked disgusted.

“Yeah, as if.” Cordelia just looked sheepish, and eager to change the  
subject. “Hey, I know! Let’s see if we still have any nog left? We can  
make low fat Cappuccinos. Or we have some Caramel Apple Cider.”

Harmony beamed. “I love that.”

“I do not understand why this is extravagant.” Illyria said as the two   
girls left the room.

Spike raised an eyebrow. “A $2000 dollar ring for a girl you probably  
have no chance with? _That_ isn’t extravagant?”

“My treasuries were…”

Spike interrupted and finished for her. “Filled with junk, yeah. I know.   
Just at this time of the year – Christmas costs quite enough as it is. No  
point wasting it on people who don’t appreciate it. Dunno why the cheerleader   
was bothering with the likes of Harris. The useless git weren’t going to   
keep her in luxury.”

“Christmas has a cost?” Illyria asked, seemingly ignoring his later comments.

Spike snorted. “People go way over the top. Food, presents, booze an’  
all that. And they’ll still be paying for it well into next year. Very  
stressful too.”

“Cost…” Illyria mused, starting to steady herself for taking them through   
to the next stage of their journey.

Spike sighed. “Here we go again…”

Illyria started to concentrate, her attention focusing inwards, channelling  
what little energies she still had into shifting them through time again.   
She looked pained with the effort, but soon the darkness of the uncanny void  
closed around them once more and they were travelling again.  


  
  


  


  


  



	7. On the Sixth Day of Christmas .... Six Geese A-Laying

  


  
© Bogwitch

 

**On the Sixth Day of Christmas… Six Geese A-Laying**,   
by Cass

_30th December 2001_

This time they were in a modern open-plan apartment, comfortably, if conventionally,   
furnished in muted beige. In one corner, an artificial Christmas tree glittered   
with white lights and silver baubles, topped off, by a large silver star.   
An Angel-free zone, Spike was relieved to see. Daylight filtered through   
blinds at the large windows, and glinted on the arms of a large ceiling fan   
bedecked with silver tinsel.

Spike took an unconscious step away from the bands of light crossing the  
floor, paused, frowned and cautiously slid his foot forward. “Hey! I’m not  
cooking!”

“You are not in this dimension. The sunlight cannot harm you.” Illyria   
walked over to the tree. She rested a finger on a branch, watching curiously   
as it shivered beneath her touch. “This green does not live. It is a facsimile?”

“Plastic.” Spike said distractedly, still engrossed with the novelty of  
being touched by the shafts of unfiltered sunlight. It was _warm_;  
he’d almost forgotten - necro-filtered sunlight was cold. “Modern thing.  
No mess an’ all. Plus you get to use it again, year after year.”

“Thus do your traditions become sullied. Your gods should punish those   
who desecrate their festivals.”

“The old gods gave up years ago, blue. We got a whole new set now,” He   
patted the large television playing quietly to itself in one corner. “So   
– Xander’s place.” He walked slowly around the room. “There’s my old room.”   
He gestured to one of the doors. “Well, not so much a room as a broom cupboard,   
but I called it home. And this one is Xander’s bedroom. Not that it saw any  
real action…” As he spoke the bedroom door opened and Anya emerged carrying   
an ugly, red glass vase.

“Well, I’ll be… never thought I’d see her again,” he said softly.

Anya walked over to the sofa and sat down, placing the vase on the glass-topped   
coffee table. She looked at it appraisingly. “If that cost more than $5,   
I’m a monkey’s uncle,” she said to herself. She picked up a notepad and pen   
and scribbled something. “Oh, crap!” She frowned. “We’re down on that one.”

A key scraped in the lock and the apartment door opened. “Honey, I’m home!”   
Xander grinned across at Anya.

“Hi, honey!” Anya turned and smiled up at him. “Good day?”

“Oh, not so bad. We got confirmation of the new job over at the mall and  
we’ve got sign-off over at the Henderson’s place. So when the guys start  
back after the holidays, we’ll all be busy little builders.” Xander crossed  
the room and bent down to kiss her.

“Bloody hell! It’s like an episode of the Brady Bunch!” Spike grimaced.  
“Any second now a bunch of nauseating brats will come running in with some  
improbable and boring sob story that can only be solved with hugs and ‘I  
love you mom’s and… and apple bloody pie. Oh and I’ll bet there’s a dog.  
Something cute and scruffy.”

“You are using metaphor. I do not understand your reference. Apple pie?”

“The Great American dream. Love, marriage, family and the happy ever after.  
Except of course, these two never made it. That arse,” he pointed a finger   
at Xander, “he dumped her at the altar.”

“Altar? She was to be a sacrifice?” Illyria examined Anya with increased   
interest.

“Well, if she’d gone ahead and married him, as good as, yeah.” Spike sneered.   
“Imagine bein’ shackled to _that_ for life. Lucky escape is what she   
had.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “Not that she saw it like that.   
Poor kid was ripped apart.”

Illyria examined Anya, head tilted. “She appears whole now.”

“I mean,” Spike explained with exaggerated care, “she loved him, he dumped  
her. Broke her heart.” He glared at Xander. “Always thought he was a stupid   
git. Turns out he was a _heartless_ stupid git.”

Xander sat next to Anya and loosened his tie, easing his collar away from   
his neck. “So, what you been up to?”

Anya held up her note pad. “I’ve been making a list of what everybody  
gave us for Christmas.”

“That’s nice, sweetheart. So we can send them all thank you notes?”

“No, silly!” Anya nudged him with a smile. “So I work out how much each  
person spent and whether we spent more or less on them. I’m hoping that  
I got my calculations correct and we came out of this in credit. And then  
I can work out how much we will need to spend on each person next Christmas,  
allowing for inflation, so that we will be sure of not ending up out of  
pocket.” She gave Xander a triumphant smile. “See?”

Xander looked at her bemusedly, then shook his head. “You’ve been… I’m   
not sure the whole spirit of Christmas and joy of giving thing necessarily   
has to be cost effective, Ahn.”

“You know, you need to keep account of the cost! It gets to Christmas  
and everyone’s all la-la-la, just a little gift here and a little gift there   
and before you know it you’re up to your eyes in debt and then along comes   
the bailiff to take away your first-born to sell into slavery to pay what   
you owe!” Xander gave her a bewildered look. “It happened to one of the matrons   
in my village! Do you want to lose our first-born to troll slave traders?”

“I think you’ll find there’s a lot less of the first-born-taking-away  
these days. Of course, they could take your car, which many would consider  
worse.”

“But this profligate wasting of money on gifts is a scandal! And even  
the church encourages it. You’ve heard _The Twelve Days of Christmas_,   
right? I worked out how much the gifts must have cost in today’s market and  
it was over $17,000! Some man spent $17,000 dollars on his true love and  
what did she get? Birds and miscellaneous farm workers and… and performers!   
What the hell was she supposed to do with all those birds? I suppose the   
six geese a-laying might have been useful for the eggs and all,” Anya conceded.   
“But then there were the milk maids and musicians and… lords! I mean, ten   
lords a-leaping? What use would they be? And why are they leaping? Did anyone   
think to ask that? And they sing this in church!”

“I don’t think it’s meant to be taken literally…” Xander shook his head.   
“It’s just a song, Ahn.”

“Well, it’s an incredibly stupid song! Small children will hear that song   
and it will raise their expectations for expensive gifts of livestock.”

“Well, commercialism is all part of the Christmas experience, I guess.   
And it’s not all bad.” Xander shrugged. “On the plus side, remember how busy  
the Magic Box has been…”

“That is true.” Anya was slightly appeased. “We do a fine trade in solstice   
and Yule ritual paraphernalia. But that has nothing to do with Christmas!   
Without Christmas we could make a great deal of money at this time of year   
and not have to spend any of it!”

“Why is this creature so concerned with money? It would appear to be her   
primary motivation.”

“Not exactly – but Anya’s got a different attitude to most mortals. Let’s  
call it refreshing honesty. ‘Course she wasn’t always a mortal. Had a couple   
of spells as a Vengeance Demon, too - bloody good one by all accounts. Gave   
it all up for love of monkey boy there.”

“She had the power of vengeance and she gave it up for this…” Illyria’s  
voice was pure disdain “feeble creature?”

“Yeah, find it hard to understand myself. Givin’ up the power and the  
fun and the mayhem for _love_?” He snorted - then hesitated. “At least…   
for him,” he added uncomfortably. “I wonder what happened to them. Bet the   
silly bint forgave him after the Hellmouth and took him back. Personally,   
I’d rather have snuffed it than spending a lifetime dyin’ of sheer boredom...”

“Christmas isn’t just about the money.” Xander had clearly decided to  
try distraction tactics. “Season of goodwill and all. Peace on earth…”

Anya looked at him in disbelief. “Goodwill! There was very little goodwill   
at your parents’ house on Christmas day, with the arguing and the fighting   
and the plate throwing! And just because your mother didn’t like the sweater   
your Cousin Carol gave her, there was no call to reduce it to shreds with  
the electric carving knife. She could have returned it to the store and  
exchanged it for money or services. And your Uncle Rory made suggestions  
to me that were highly inappropriate considering I’m betrothed to his nephew.  
And quite possibly illegal in many States. You know, if he carries on like  
that, I can see your Aunt calling on the services of one of my former colleagues   
any time now.”

“OK! OK! Forget the goodwill.” Xander kept on with the distraction tactics  
determinedly and snuggled closer to Anya, kissing her on the neck. “How  
about… it’s all about love… love’s free…”

“Love!” Anya pushed him away with a pout. “Do you know, this was one of  
our busiest times of year? Post-Christmas vengeance is big business! Do  
you know how bad a woman who’s been dumped feels when she’s watching families  
and couples all being big with the Christmas cheer? You throw in having  
to endure her mother’s comments over Christmas dinner about her never being  
able to keep a man and you can hear the scream for help from dimensions away!  
And then there are the inferior Christmas gifts. I’ve dolled out many a vengeance   
for poorly chosen rings.”

“Anya.” Xander turned her around to face him and took her face in his  
hands. “I promise you, when we’re married it’ll all be different. You –  
you’re my hope for a better future. No more spending Christmas Eve in the  
yard, no more drunken fights, no more family arguments over the undercooked  
turkey…”

“I’m not much with the cooking.” Anya bit her lip. “I can’t promise I  
can do any better than your mother. Although I don’t think I would have  
tried flambé-ing it with the bottle of brandy…”

“That was… spectacular.” Xander conceded. “We’ll manage – together. I  
think I'm in for a future filled with many exciting ... and quite possibly  
strange Christmases, and I'm not interested in facing them without you around.  
You and me will make our own Christmas spirit.” He kissed her gently. “Now,   
about the free love…”

She smiled up at him. “I love you Mr. Xander Harris.”

“And I love you, soon-to-be-Mrs. Xander Harris.”

“Oh, please…” Spike groaned.

“Shall we have sex now?” Anya sighed happily and leaned toward Xander  
seductively.

“Not convinced I wanna stay around for that one.” Spike watched in disdain  
as Xander drew Anya into a long kiss, and then with sudden interest as  
Anya drew back with a smile and pulled off her jumper. “Oh, but I don’t  
know…” he murmured appreciatively.

“Mortals set much store by this emotion they call love. It is a chimera.   
They seek to find perfection in another as flawed as themselves. They are   
doomed to fail.” Illyria watched the entwined couple dispassionately. “But   
this one was a demon. I would expect better.”

“Demons can love – we’re not immune.” Spike looked down at Anya. “We make   
mistakes too.”

“Then you are fools.” Illyria said dismissively. “You are like them -  
less than animals. You waste time and energy on the unnecessary and disregard   
what is important. It is no wonder your race are but puny insects on a putrefying   
shell of a world.”

“Well, you might call it putrefying but we call it home.” Spike shrugged.   
“You really don’t get it, do you? Love is what makes us better than animals.”

“I tire of this argument.” Illyria interrupted him imperiously. “This  
‘love’ has no place in my philosophy. You wallow in this emotion like swine  
in mud. It is a pointless indulgence.”

“It’s not an indulgence. It’s a human necessity. Food, drink, love – it’s   
what it’s all about. Mind you, I guess this time of year we do tend to overindulge.   
Oh, no…” Spike held up his hands as Illyria’s stare intensified; he was beginning  
to recognise the signs. “Not again. Look, I’ve had enough of this. Don’t  
know what you’re expecting to learn or why you’re doing this, but enough is  
enough. I won’t be used like… like some sort of preschool teaching aid for  
a has-been God. Stop it now.”

“You presume to command me?” Illyria’s already ice-cold glare dropped  
by several degrees more.

“No. I’m asking you… nicely.”

“My will shall be done. I will understand.” She closed her eyes, straining  
to focus, her normally impassive features etched with lines of effort.

“You won’t, alright! You haven’t got the bloody capacity to understand   
you stupid…” Spike growled with impotent frustration as time and space again   
eddied around him at Illyria’s command “..._blue BINT_!” he howled as  
their next destination snapped into focus.

  
  
  


  


  



	8. On the Seventh Day of Christmas ..... Seven Swans A-Swimming

  


© Hesadevil  


  
**On the Seventh  
Day of Christmas… Seven Swans A-Swimming, by Hesadevil**   
_   
**New Years Eve, 31st December, 2003** _

Spike glowered at Illyria; his mouth set in a pout of such magnitude that   
she swung her arm back and hit him squarely in the centre of it. He flew   
across the function room and bounced off the opposite wall.

“What the hell was that for?” he asked groggily, rubbing his face.

“Your co-operation is waning,” said Illyria, crossing the room to join   
him. “And your concentration suffers in proportion to your insolence.” She   
moved through groups of partygoers dressed for the New Year’s Eve festivities,   
scrutinising their costumes as she passed them. “Why are they dressed thus?”   
She indicated four young men dressed in matching grey suits with collarless   
jackets. Three of them carried guitars and the fourth held a pair of drumsticks   
and a tambourine.

Spike pulled himself to his feet grumbling softly to himself. “Lorne’s   
New Year’s Eve party,” he said finally. “Invitation said dress as an artiste   
of yesteryear,” he added by way of explanation.

Illyria wandered around the room, taking in everything, from the huge  
clock festooned with streamers hanging on one wall, to the helium balloons  
filled with confetti anchored to each table. Guests arriving through the  
entrance door passed underneath a huge champagne glass arch, where they  
were greeted by Lorne dressed in the glittering white and silver suit beloved  
of Liberace. Beside Lorne stood Angel, looking none too happy. He was dressed  
in the clothes of a seventeenth century Irishman, and held a small harp  
under one arm.

Spike watched as his past self arrived at the door and pushed through  
the line of guests.

Angel held out an arm and blocked his way. “Invited guests only, Spike.”

“That’s me,” grinned Spike. “All legal and proper.” He fished in the pocket   
of his coat and waved the wrinkled invitation under Angel’s nose. “Now stand   
aside...” he paused, frowning at Angel’s costume. “Who’re you supposed to   
be, anyway? One of the Marx brothers?”

“No!” said Angel indignantly. He held up the harp. “I’m Carolyn.”

“Not wearing the right kind of frock,” mocked Spike, taking in Angel’s   
coat and breeches. “Besides, never heard of her. She some classical bint?”   
he asked, indicating the harp.

“_He_ was only the greatest Irish harpist – _ever_.” Angel scrutinised   
Spike’s clothes. “You’re still not coming in,” he said, turning to Lorne.   
“He’s not in costume, you said guests had to be in costume.”

Lorne shifted his attention from the Elvis look-alike who had just handed   
him his requested New Year’s Resolution list. “In you go, Elvis,” he said,   
placing the list in the box beside him. “Table ten. With Big Bopper – next   
to Buddy.” He stared at Spike. “He is in costume, Angelcake... Billy Idol!”   
he said grimacing.

“No he’s not,” protested Angel. “He looks exactly the same as he always  
does. Leather coat, black pants, boots, radioactive hair.”

“Changed the coat,” said Spike, swaggering past and into the room. “What   
more d’you want?”

“There’s the little matter of the Resolution list,” Lorne reminded him.

“Paper wasn’t big enough,” Spike replied, striding towards the bar with  
its Cocktail Making Contest notice now flashing its lights. “Wanna have  
a go at that.”

Angel gritted his teeth. “Lorne,” he groaned. “Does he have to be here?”

“He’s one of the team now, Harpo,” said Lorne. “Or will be if Wes can  
persuade... Wesley! You look great.” Lorne held out his hand as Wesley appeared  
in the doorway. “Don’t tell me,” he cried, looking at Wesley’s white jacket,  
black bow tie, black pants and highly polished shoes. “You’re a band leader

– Big Band?”

Wesley shook his head and opened his mouth to speak.

Lorne waved his hand. “No, no, no, don’t tell me. I’ll get it. It’s _so_   
forties, so American night-club owner, so...” He paused and stood back for   
a better view of Wesley’s clothes. “Rick - _Casablanca_ – I’m right   
aren’t I?”

“Well, yes,” Wesley agreed, smiling. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Love it,” agreed Lorne. “But not as much as _this_ little lady does,”   
he said smiling at someone behind Wesley.

Wesley turned and gaped a little at the sight of Fred, wearing a long  
full-skirted dress with gathered waist and V-neck trimmed in faux fur. She  
wore no jewellery, the dress’s only decoration being a red rose at the base  
of the 'V'.

Lorne held out his hand and escorted Fred to her table. He waved at Wesley.   
“Over here, Mr Bogart,” he called. “Miss Bacall awaits.”

“Bogey and Bacall,” murmured Present Spike. “I’d forgotten.”

Illyria concentrated her attention on Wesley and Fred. “There is significance   
in the costumes they chose?”

“Right couple, wrong films,” explained Spike.

“Films. These are the movies of which Lorne spoke earlier. They are shadow   
plays.”

“Not really.” Spike sighed. “Look this is getting far too complicated.”

Illyria ignored him, her eyes sweeping the room, focusing on the costumes.  
“This New Year’s party. This too is a shadow play. Everyone appears as  
someone else.” She gazed once again at Wesley and Fred. “Perhaps they play  
at being what they would wish to be.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Spike. “But mainly it’s an excuse to get pissed, do  
some more overeating, make promises about being a better person next year,  
and get off with someone on the stroke of midnight.”

“Get off?”

“As in indulging in a bit of snogging,” explained Spike. “Which is what  
the silly cow who’s just walked in is hoping for.”

Illyria swung round just in time to catch sight of Harmony giggling her  
way past Angel.

“The invitation said ‘artist’, and when it arrived I’d just been to see  
that fabulous film about the girl... you know... the one with the earring.  
Only it wasn’t her earring, it was his wife’s earring.” Harmony burbled  
on, oblivious to Angel’s blank look of incomprehension. “And the wife hadn’t  
an idea what was going on. It was so obvious that there was, you know. That  
Mr Darcy’s so scrumptious. How anyone could resist? He’s all dark and broody  
and... Oh, hey!”

Harmony stopped, catching sight of Lorne who was making his way back from   
Fred’s table. “Lorne, tell the Boss that I _am_ in a proper costume.   
I’m the girl with the pearl earring.” She lifted the fold of silk scarf she’d  
woven round her head in imitation of the subject of the famous painting and  
revealed the lobe of her ear, adorned with a single pearl teardrop.

Lorne grinned the frozen grin of a long-suffering Karaoke bar owner. “_Artiste_,  
Harmonica, not artist. But I think we’ll waive the distinction. You do  
look rather exotic.” He waved Harmony through. “Enjoy yourself, my little  
Sultana.”

Harmony beamed. “Lorney, you are the sweetest. And you throw the best  
parties ever. And…” she stopped and gave a piercing squeal as she caught  
sight of the chocolate fountain in the far corner of the room. “Lorne! It’s  
fabulous! Anyone who’s anyone has one of these this year.” She peered over  
Angel’s shoulder, standing on tiptoe for a better view. “I’ve never seen  
one this big.”

On a raised platform stood a five-tiered chocolate fountain, flanked on  
either side by an enormous pineapple. Around the base, baskets of fine spun  
sugar latticework held a selection of juicy figs and succulent dates, walnuts  
and savoury pretzels. Bowls of fine Italian glass were piled high with strawberries,   
cherries and grapes, while platters of tiny orange physalis, each crowned   
with golden paper-thin leaves, jostled for attention with plates bearing   
marshmallows and peanut-butter balls.  
Illyria moved swiftly through the crowds, pulling Spike along with her.  
“I wish to see more. This room is alive with emotions that speak to me.  
There are more shadow plays here than those assuming masks have chosen.”

She stopped at the small side table beside the fountain. It held an arrangement   
of wooden bowls with tightly fitting lids bearing labels announcing their   
contents. Illyria studied these with interest, while various guests, oblivious   
to her presence, selected items to spear with long-handled forks and hold  
under the silky flow of bittersweet chocolate.

“The scarab is sacred, yet it is offered to all,” she observed.

Spike peered over her shoulder. “Beetles, spiders, centipedes, scorpions.”   
He read each label in turn, then glanced across to where Lorne was welcoming   
Gunn who was wearing a blue silk boxing robe bearing the name ‘Ali’. “Just   
‘cos a bloke’s a demon, doesn’t mean he isn’t welcome at one of Lorne’s do’s.”

“What is the purpose of this ‘_do_’?” Illyria asked coldly. “These  
are not friends, or family. Why are they here?”

“Told you, it‘s an excuse for a piss-up,” answered Spike. “Was for me,   
at any rate, that night.” He turned his gaze on the bar, where the cocktail  
making contest was about to begin.

“We shall see how you fared,” announced Illyria, sweeping towards the  
bar.

As they wove their way across the room, the crowds speeded up, flashing  
by them in a blur of colour and noise. They passed through seven booths  
created to give some tables more privacy, their walls radiating the blood  
red colour of the fabric draped over the partitions. Overhead boughs gilded  
with gold leaf hung down almost touching the floor under the weight of giant  
baubles encrusted with emeralds and rubies, and huge crystal teardrops suspended   
from gold chains. In the centre of each booth, the table was covered in a  
rich damask cloth and laid with crystal wineglasses and silver cutlery and  
charger plates. A gold platter held the centrepiece; a pedestal of ice, bearing  
a sculpted swan, swimming on a lake of caviar.

“Looks like he really blew the entertainment budget on this one,” reflected   
Spike as they emerged beside the bar.

“This is different from what we have seen before. It is not about friendship  
or love. It is designed to impress,” Illyria said without emotion. “It  
denotes power and prestige.”

Spike and Illyria watched as Harmony called for the ingredients to numerous   
concoctions that were mixed, shaken or stirred before Spike’s past self sampled  
each one and pronounced his verdict.

Illyria fast-forwarded time once again and Harmony announced the winning   
cocktail. “_Absinthe Without Leave_,” she said brightly.

“Think I’ll go and help myself to a little sweetener after all that,”  
said Spike’s former self, making his way towards the chocolate fountain.

Harmony followed, stopping on the way beside the Queen of the Night mannequin  
adorning the stage area. She removed her headscarf and reached up towards   
the black ostrich feather atop the golden head-dress.

“What are you doing, Harmony?” said a voice from behind the Queen.

Harmony froze and waited for Angel to appear. “Um, just trying it on,  
Boss,” she stammered.

“Stick with the scarf,” said Angel. “It suits you, and besides…” he broke   
off as Harmony shrieked into his ear.

“What _is_ Spike doing?” she squealed. “That is _so_ unhygienic.”

Angel turned to face the chocolate fountain and paused briefly before  
storming over to Spike. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

Spike watched his past self slowly finish sucking chocolate from his index  
finger. “Only what the sign says.” He pointed at the notice skewered to  
a pineapple.

“_Dip your favourite_,” Angel read aloud. He scanned the contents   
of the table. “You’re supposed to use _these_,” he snarled.

“Prefer the digit,” Spike smirked. “Besides – know what my favourite chocolate-covered   
thing is?” He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Angel glowered at him. “You’re drunk and if you can’t behave, I’ll…”

“Lighten up, Peaches. New Year’s all about havin’ fun.”

Angel slapped Spike’s hand away as he reached for another finger coating.

Spike tilted his head again and frowned. “Why’re you here? Thought you   
hated this sort of thing.”

Angel glanced over to where Lorne was organising the final line-up of  
Karaoke performers. “I owed it to him, for the Halloween mess,” he replied.  
“He deserves to enjoy at least one party this year.” He picked a cherry from  
a bowl and held it under the flow.

“Not gonna happen, not while you’re still here,” said Spike. “You’re genetically   
incapable of enjoying yourself.” Spike plucked the chocolate-coated cherry   
from his Grandsire’s fingers and popped it into his mouth. “Add to that a  
tendency to make everyone else’s life a misery...” Spike paused and thought   
for a second. “Isn’t there somewhere else you’d rather be?” he asked, his   
gaze wandering back to the bar. “Someone you’d rather be with, now that you’ve  
finished the greet and meet?”

Angel surveyed the room. All around him, humans and demons were nosily   
feasting and drinking. “Yes,” he said finally, resting the harp against the  
table, “there is.”

He made his way over to Lorne.

“Elvis, you’re up first, honey, just watch the decibels and go easy with   
the hips. Those globes don’t come cheap.” Lorne waved at Angel, indicating  
that he knew he wanted to speak with him.

Angel slipped past and whispered something in Gunn’s ear. Gunn nodded  
and Angel slipped out of the room.

The Elvis look-alike curled his lip and took up his position in front  
of the microphone. With one hand on the mike stand and the other thrust  
out sideways, he bent one knee, swivelled his hips and launched into an ear-splitting  
rendition of _Blue Suede Shoes_. Illyria and Spike moved closer to Lorne  
to hear the message Gunn was delivering.

“He’s gone to sit with Cordy,” they heard Gunn shout.

Lorne’s face fell. He reached for a cocktail on a tray that was being  
carried head height towards one of the private booths. He threw back the  
garishly coloured liquid and grimaced, smiling slightly at Gunn as they  
waited for the song to finish. “Let’s hear it for the King!” he bellowed  
at the crowd. “Next up – and are you boys in for a treat – it’s the sex  
bomb herself. Take it away Marilyn.”

Illyria closed her eyes and breathed in heavily. “We shall watch the culmination   
of the evening,” she announced.

The music faded and Spike watched with fascination as the guests swirled  
and shimmered before his eyes. He felt giddy as the reds and golds of the  
room danced and undulated in waves. He too closed his eyes, opening them  
again cautiously as the music reasserted itself, the final bars of _Rock  
Around the Clock_ resonating through the room.

Lorne plucked the microphone out of the grasp of a slightly stunned Bill  
Haley. “That last one was for all you groovers out there,” he announced.  
“Getting in the mood for the countdown to the big twelve double zero. Fill  
your glasses, grab your partner, pucker those luscious lips and get ready  
for lift off. Ten… nine... eight... seven...”

The crowd gathered beneath the clock joined in enthusiastically. “Six...   
five... four... three... two... _Happy New Year_!”

All at once, a cacophony of Party poppers filled the air with paper streamers,   
that exploded upwards before floating slowly down onto the revellers below.   
As they did so, the balloons above the tables burst in sequence, showering   
the diners with hundreds of tiny gold and silver stars.

Spike watched in silence as Fred and Wesley clinked the rims of their  
glasses together. They allowed their fingers to brush briefly before lifting  
the glasses to their lips and swallowing the remaining contents.  
“Happy New Year, Fred,” said Wesley softly, looking deep into her eyes.

“Happy New Year, Wesley,” replied Fred, dropping her eyes and blushing   
slightly.

“This is not 'getting off',” commented Illyria.

“No,” agreed Spike. “It’s something else altogether.”

Illyria directed her gaze to the large red leather sofa, tucked away in  
the alcove by the window, where Spike’s past self sat, slumped at one end.  
He was gazing into the half-empty whisky glass in his hand. As the final  
stroke of midnight sounded, he threw back the remains of the drink, then  
rested his head against the back cushion and closed his eyes.

Illyria remained silent and unmoving.

Spike stared past her. At the first crack of fireworks outside the window,   
his past self opened his eyes and gazed out of the window.

“Why did you not do as the others?” asked Illyria.

Spike sighed. “It’s traditional to do one of two things on the stroke  
of midnight, Highness.” He motioned at Fred and Wesley. “A gesture of affection  
with a loved one, or,” he swung his attention to Lorne, leading a line of  
Conga dancers between the tables, “celebrate the highs of last year and  
look forward to a repeat performance.”

“All this is without substance,” Illyria replied, indicating the partygoers.   
“Shallow indulgence of selfish desires.”

Spike was impressed. “You’re learnin’ fast.”

Illyria waited unblinkingly for Spike to continue; fixing him with a glassy   
blue stare that never wavered.

He began picking at the gilding of one of the Christmas decorations on   
the table beside them. “What do you want from me, Queenie?”

“To know why.”

“Why what?” Spike snapped a twig from the arrangement and watched as a   
shower of glitter cascaded to the floor.

“I wish to know why your leader did not choose to celebrate the victories   
of the past year with you and your comrades.”

Spike shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong bloke,” he said, watching his   
former self drift into a booze-induced doze. “Haven’t a clue what Angel got  
up to for most of that year. I was still the new kid on the block.”

“I wish to know more of this tradition. It is a warrior’s tradition to   
make offerings to the gods, in remembrance and supplication.” Illyria rotated   
through a full circle, observing the different areas of the room in turn.   
“I see no tradition here, only gluttony and greed and indulgence.” She glanced   
down at the table and picked up the gilded box containing the New Years’ Resolutions.  
“These were mere entrance tokens. They played no part in this night’s events.  
There was no sacred ceremony acknowledging the Old Year’s death and the birth  
of the new.”

She fingered the remains of the twig in Spike’s hand. “Tradition is dying,  
along with the green. There is no priest to guide the worshippers through   
the sacred texts.

“_That’s_ traditional,” said Spike, pointing at Lorne, returning  
with his line of dancers still following.

“A clown who hides his fear behind a mask of smiles, leading those who   
dance to please themselves, not in remembrance of past glory.” Illyria stared   
into the night sky. “I will witness this ceremony where it is worthy of the  
name Tradition.”

“You’ll have a long search, Princess,” said Spike wearily. “American traditions   
don’t go back that far. They’re more yer instant variety.”

Illyria gazed at his face, her glacial eyes piercing through into his  
soul. “It lies within you,” she announced, “at the core of your human self,  
and in another land.”

Spike shivered slightly as her gaze froze time once more and the golden  
glow of Lorne’s expensively decorated party venue faded.  


  


  


  



	9. On the Eighth Day of Christmas ..... Eight Maids A-Milking

© Bogwitch  


  
**8\. On the Eighth Day of Christmas… Eight Maids A-Milking,   
by Cass**

** _New Years Day, January 1st, 2004_ **

This time when Spike opened his eyes it was to the unmistakable glow of  
moonlight on snow. Sheets of jewel-bright stars shone icily in the black  
velvet of the sky. In the light of the full moon, the winter-bare trees cast  
strong shadows across a wide sweep of pristine, glittering snow. In the distance   
the smooth, time-worn outlines of snow shrouded mountains stood in stark   
relief, dark pine forests clothing their lower slopes, running down to a quicksilver-smooth  
expanse of water.

He let out a low whistle. “Very pretty, love.” He considered the panorama   
for a moment. “OK. Enough. It’s cold. Let’s go.”

Illyria turned her gaze from the distant hills and looked at Spike. “You   
are a half-breed. The cold does not matter to you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Spike pulled his duster closer around him.  
“We’re a bit like snakes – you know, cold-blooded. We get real cold, we  
slow down. S’why you’ll never find a vampire at the South Pole – that and  
the fact penguins taste bloody awful.” He stamped his feet and shivered.

“So – where are we? Lapland? Decided to come lookin’ for Santa?”

Illyria twisted her head to look back over her shoulder. Spike turned  
to follow her gaze. “Oh. Right. We’re goin’ for the full-on Highland cliché,   
then.”

Across a wide expanse of snow-covered lawn stood a picture-book Scottish   
castle, complete with thick granite walls, mullioned windows and a snow-capped   
tower. The lower windows blazed with light, casting an orange glow on the   
snow beneath them.

“Well, light’s are on so someone’s home. I vote we go visit the Laird  
and blag ourselves a wee dram.” He set off across the lawn. Half way across,   
he looked down at his feet and then back the way they had come. “Hey! Look   
– no footprints! Aww. No snow angels, then.”

“Snow angels?” Illyria glanced over at him.

“You lie on your back in the snow and kind of move your arms up and down,  
then when you get up you’ve left an impression in the snow that looks like…   
What?” He frowned over at Illyria’s uncomprehending stare. “It’s a kid’s   
thing, OK?” They were getting closer to the castle now and Spike could make   
out a heavily muffled figure pacing backwards and forwards in the snow outside   
the main door. “Some-one over there. That who we’ve come to see?” The figure   
dropped something and a short, sharp curse carried across the snow toward   
them. Spike stopped dead at a jolt of recognition. “Oh, wait a minute! You   
have got to be kidding me! We’ve come here to stand in the snow, freezin’   
our bollocks off for _him_?”

“Oh, good heavens!” Giles muttered to himself, pulling his scarf closer  
around his face. The process of rearranging his clothing caused him to drop  
another of the jumble of objects he was carrying into the snow. As he bent  
to pick it up, something else fell with a muffled thud. “Oh, blast! There  
goes the Black Bun.” he picked up a lump of dark coloured fruitcake, brushed  
off the snow and crammed it into his coat pocket. The other objects in his  
collection followed suit save for a silver hip flask. Giles shook it hopefully,  
uncorked it and raised it to his lips. His disappointed frown clearly indicated  
he’s already emptied that particular source of refreshment. He sighed and  
looked at his watch. “Come on, come on!” he muttered impatiently, stamping  
his feet in the snow.

Illyria watched him, head cocked. “Why does he wait?”

“I suspect…” Spike was cut off in mid-sentence by the sound of clock chimes,   
the door being thrown open and the painful wail of the first notes of the   
bagpipes. He winced. “First foot.”

Illyria peered at Giles’ feet as he walked across the snow toward the  
open door. “I do not understand.”

“It’s a tradition. The First Foot is the first person to cross the threshold  
after the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Day. C’mon!” He sprinted across   
the snow, Illyria close behind. “Important who does it, see? Should by rights   
be a dark haired man for luck… somethin’ to do with memories of the Viking   
hordes - blond strangers arriving on your doorstep generally meant trouble.”   
He slipped past Giles and made it through the door before him. He grinned   
as Illyria joined him. “Wonder what sort of luck a blond vampire will bring   
them?”

They were standing in a large, dark, wood-panelled hall. A log fire crackled   
in a huge fireplace still wearing its Christmas dressing of greenery. Hunting   
trophies and prints adorned the walls, interspersed with heavy, faded tapestries   
and ancient, rusting weaponry. A huge, tartan-dressed Christmas tree, its   
green needles beginning to darken and dry, stood in the well of a wide polished   
wooden staircase that wound solidly upward. The whole place was redolent   
with the smell of wood smoke and cigars, the tang of pine and the warmth of  
beeswax, the feeling of solidity, age and gentility. “Look’s like the watcher’s  
got some rich mates.” Spike was impressed despite himself.

Illyria watched as Giles emptied his pockets and handed their contents   
to a laughing grey haired man in a kilt. “What does he give to the man in   
the skirt?”

“Skirt?” Spike gave a snort of laughter. “It’s a kilt! Never say skirt   
to a Scotsman, love.” He looked over at Giles. “Salt, coal, Black Bun and   
whisky – well, he’s drunk the whisky.”

“They are offerings for the birth of the new year? That man is a priest?   
They seem poor sacrifices.” Illyria walked closer to the two men. “I would   
not be appeased.”

“Not offerings, just – I dunno, symbols or something. Traditional. OK  
– you’ve seen traditional. Now can we… Oh, what _now_?” He gave an  
exasperated sigh.

Illyria tilted her head listening carefully. She focused on something  
across the hall and made for a door opposite. Spike followed reluctantly.  
This room, like the hall, was richly panelled and had a brightly burning  
fire in the hearth. Full-length windows, the heavy damask drapes pulled back,  
looked out over the snow-covered landscape. In the centre a large dark oak  
table was set with a white cloth and laid with silver dishes piled with party  
food – sausages and cheese on sticks jostling with vol-au-vents, mini quiches   
and chicken legs. A whole poached salmon, bedecked with cucumber scales and  
olive-slice eyes lay glistening in pride of place next to a large, brown-crusted   
game pie. A pile of plates, napkins, cutlery and glasses sat waiting beside   
them. But it was the lone man in the room who had Illyria’s attention. She   
walked over to him and examined him closely.

“What is he doing? What is that creature he fights with?” She turned a   
puzzled gaze to Spike.

Spike winced. “Bagpipes. Not a creature. Musical instrument – allegedly.   
Look, can we get out of here?”

“It pleases me.” Illyria tilted her head at the piper. “The sound is familiar…”

“Strangle a lot of cats where you come from, do they? C’mon, pet! Let’s  
go see what the watcher’s up to.”

Illyria kept her eyes fixed on the piper. “He comes,” she said without   
looking around.

A small crowd of people were coming into the dining room, Giles amongst  
them. Spike was highly relieved to see he had forgone the kilt in favour  
of a suit. The majority of the party were male, and all, as far as Spike  
could see, were old and grey and _dull_. This wasn’t going to be any  
sort of swinging party, then. Almost wished he was back with Lorne. He left  
Illyria to her rapt contemplation of the piper and wandered slowly around  
the room, eavesdropping on the various conversations. After a few minutes  
of that he was back at Illyria’s side. “Do you know who this lot are?” he  
asked her. “Watchers! You’ve only brought us to a bloody Watcher’s shindig!  
I thought the First had done for this lot, but no, more of ‘em crawlin’ out  
of the woodwork! And another thing…” he paused as the grey haired man they  
had seen earlier called attention by tapping a knife against a ringing crystal  
glass. “Oh, great. Just in time for the speeches.”

The piper droned the bagpipes to silence and Illyria switched her attention   
to the man calling for silence. “The priest is about to speak. I will hear  
him.” She crossed the room, trailed by a mumbling and unhappy vampire.

“Let me first say how happy I am that so many of you are able to join  
us here tonight. I know that some of you have had to make very long journeys,  
and some have left the comfort of hearth and home and family to be here.  
I thank you and offer you the freedom and hospitality of my… humble… home.”

He paused, smiling self-consciously.

“Git.” Spike mumbled.

“And,” he went on “we are here to remember; to remember our _annus horribilis_,  
to remember our fallen colleagues, and those who died in the stand against   
the First Evil. We have instituted a Book of Remembrance.” He gestured to   
a large, leather bound tome open on the table in front of him. “Each of their  
names is recorded here, for each has earned the honour of our Council and  
each deserves to be remembered.” He patted the book solemnly. “But now, we  
look to the future, to the New Year and our new hope. The Council will rise  
again, and now, with the redrawing of the rules of slayerhood, we are needed  
more than ever. Evil has not quit this earth. Loathsome creatures still  
stalk this fair world of ours. On this day, the Eighth Day of Christmas,   
the carol tells us of the eight Beatitudes: blessed are the poor in spirit,   
the meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the   
pure in heart, the peacemakers, those who are persecuted for righteousness'   
sake and those who mourn. And today, although we mourn for those that have   
fallen in the struggle we look to the future and our continued fight for righteousness.  
May we be blessed in our quest to rid the world of the abhorrent plague  
of demonkind.” There was a general muttering of assent and the occasional   
muted ‘hear, hear’ from the audience.

“Oh, for… I don’t have to listen to this!” Spike growled.

“Desist!” Illyria flashed him an ice-cold glare. “I will hear him.”

“And now,” the speaker signalled the piper, “we will remember. And I will  
ask one who knew them best to propose the toast. Rupert?” He gestured to   
Giles.

Giles looked down at the floor briefly, and then raised his glass. “_Auld   
Lang Syne_.”

The rest of the room returned the toast, the piper struck up the tune  
and fifteen voices were raised in song.

_“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
And never brought to mind?  
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
And days of Auld Lang Syne….” _

When the last note of the pipes and the last wavering voice died, there  
was a short silence. A sudden loud bang from outside drew everyone’s attention   
to the window. “Fireworks!” A voice called and there was a sudden stampede   
to grab coats, scarves and hats and go outside.

“They remember their fallen warriors. There is honour in this.” Illyria  
stood at the window, watching the small crowd of people admiring the brightly  
coloured lights exploding in the sky.

“No thanks to them that there isn’t a whole load more fallen warriors  
to remember,” Spike muttered. “Bugger all use they were…”

Illyria ignored him. “These Watchers.” A shower of golden stars reflected   
on the cold, dead surface of her eyes. “They are wise men? Tribal elders?”

“They’re a bunch of wankers!” Spike snorted in disdain. “They bang on  
about righteousness and… and mercy… _mercy_! For God’s sake! You want  
tradition? Here it is at its worst! They are so fucking blinkered, so set  
in their narrow little ways that…” There was the sound of a page being turned  
from behind them Spike turned to see Giles bending over the Book of Remembrance.   
“Him!” He pointed a finger at Giles and moved to stand across the table from  
him. “You just kept blindly on, clingin’ to the past! That’s the way it  
always was an’ that’s the way it will always be, right _Rupert_? No  
time for anything that rocked your comfy little watcher world, with its…

its stupid traditions and dogmas and sheer unbending _fucking_ certainties!   
You complete and utter, idiotic, uptight, bleedin’… _wanker_!” Words   
finally failed Spike and he settled for seething quietly at Giles’ bent head.

Giles ran his finger down the list of names, pausing occasionally as if  
in thought. His finger stopped at one name longer than the others.

“Anya.” He said softly. “Poor Anya.”

“Anya?” Spike felt a shock of pain. “Anya bought it?” _We should have  
been dead hundreds of years ago ... and we're the only ones who are really  
alive_. “No-one told me. Fuck.” He looked back at Giles. “I should’ve  
known.” He said accusingly.

Giles reached the end of the role of names and sighed. He sat down heavily   
in one of the chairs, and stared into the swirling amber liquid in his glass,   
clearly lost in his memories. Spike watched him, noticing the pain etched   
clearly on his face. He looked so much more careworn than before, weary almost.  
The watcher was hurting.

“Yeah, well.” Spike felt a pang of sympathy and bit it down. Like Giles  
had ever shown him any compassion. “You tried to off me! Bloody good job  
Woodentops didn’t manage it, huh? Things might have been a bit different  
back at the Hellmouth then!”

Giles looked up, his eyes travelling through Spike and out of the window.   
“I’m sorry.” He said softly.

Spike did a double take. “Huh? You talking to me?”

“He cannot see you.” Illyria was still engrossed in the explosions and   
glittering lights of the fireworks.

Giles stared down at the book. “Should be there by rights,” he muttered.   
He put down his glass and fished in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out  
a blue enamelled fountain pen. He unscrewed the lid and frowned down at  
the book in thought. As Spike watched curiously, Giles looked surreptitiously   
around the room, then bent over the book and began to write. Spike craned   
his neck, hoping for a sight of Giles’ message, but Giles was carefully screening  
what he was doing with his free arm, as if hiding his efforts. Eventually  
he stopped, screwed the top back on the pen and replaced it in his pocket.  
He paused, and then raised his glass in a toast. “To Spike.” He took a deep  
swallow, closed his eyes briefly and then lowered the glass with a self-conscious  
laugh. “Talking to yourself, Rupert? You really should take more water with  
it.” He got unsteadily to his feet and walked out of the room.

Spike watched him go and then walked quickly around the table and peered   
down at the open page.

“His writing hasn’t improved any,” he muttered. “If it gets any smaller…”   
He frowned in concentration and read “_Spike – ‘That best portion of a   
good man's life: his nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.’ _

_Lest We Forget_.” He looked up and watched Giles’ back as he made his way  
slowly across the room. “Well, bugger me.” he said softly.

Spike stood next to Illyria, watching the last of the fireworks fading   
in the now starless sky. The first few feather-like snowflakes began to fall  
softly and silently, and before long the outside world became masked in  
a swirling snowstorm. From the hall came the sounds of laughter as the guests  
came inside and out of the cold.

“Nice to be remembered, I guess.” Spike stared out of the window, lost   
in reminiscence.

“In memories we live beyond our time. When memories die, we die.” Illyria  
gave a short nod. “I will see another. I will see one from my remembrance.”   
She paused. “I wish to see him.”

Spike glanced over at her. “Thought you might.” He said. Together they   
watched as the swirling snow merged and blended with the blur of space and   
time.  
  
  


  


  



	10. On the Ninth Day of Christmas ..... Nine Ladies Dancing

  


© Bogwitch  


  
**On the Ninth Day of Christmas… Nine Ladies Dancing, by  
Hesadevil**

**_2nd January 2004_  
**  
Spike leaned against the wall and watched as Illyria studied the man  
who sat before her holding a small object in his hand.

Wesley shook the snow globe gently and peered into the scene that was   
now obscured by the swirling flakes.

He placed the ornament carefully on the centre of his desk "_For Auld   
Lang Syne_," he murmured, reading the inscription on the plaque at the   
base of the ornament. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through   
his hair. "I wonder whether whoever gave this to me knows the real meaning   
of that phrase," he asked, looking up as Angel entered his office.

"What phrase?"

Wesley pointed at the globe. “I was handed this at the party - by a very  
attractive young woman.”

“Fred?”

“Not Fred. Another attractive young woman.” Wesley pushed his chair away   
from the desk and went over to the door. “She was wearing a mask,” he added,   
closing the door softly. “And a rather daring Liza Minelli Cabaret outfit.”

“Lorne said artistes from the past? Liza Minelli’s not dead, is she?”

Angel asked, picking up the globe and shaking it.

“Not that I’ve heard,” said Wesley slowly. He stared at the ornament  
in Angel’s hand. “I got the impression that this particular guest never  
had an invitation.”

“A gate crasher?” Angel placed the glass back on the desk. “You think   
there’s something sinister about this thing?” he asked, taking a pace back.

“No – no, nothing like that,” said Wesley reassuringly. “I’m just curious  
as to why she gave it to me. Why me? And why this inscription?” He took  
it in his hands once more, turning it over and examining the base for a  
clue as to its origins. “Made in Bavaria? Hmmm. With an inscription from  
Scotland. Curious.” Wesley replaced it on the desk and turned back to Angel.  
“Was there something you wanted?”

“Me? No. Just checking on the team. Keeping a finger on the pulse.” Angel  
turned to go. “Wes...?”

Wesley waited. Finally, after a lengthy silence, he said. “Yes?”

“It’s just… Is there anything going on? You know, an outbreak of demon  
violence, a rise in vampire attacks? Anything?”

Wesley walked Angel to the door and opened it for him. “You’ll be the   
first to know. I will personally inform you of any cases requiring your individual  
attention.”

He closed the door behind Angel’s retreating back and sighed. “Someone  
else seems to be doing your job for you out there. If the rumours are true,  
it looks as though there’s a rogue demon slayer in town. Just like old  
times.”

The door opened again and Angel’s head appeared round inside the doorframe.  
“Did you say something about a Slayer?”

Wesley sighed. “Just thinking out loud.”

Angel stepped back inside the office. “What are you doing here, Wes?  
We’re closed for the holidays.”

“I could ask the same of you,” Wesley replied.

“I _live_ here.”

Wesley watched Angel move to the window and gaze down into the busy streets  
below.

“Not _here_, you don’t. Your apartment’s upstairs. What are you  
doing down here?”

Angel turned and picked the snow globe from Wesley’s desk, turning it   
to read the inscription. “Visiting a friend,” he said softly.

“The same friend you left the New Year’s party early for?” Wesley asked.

Angel nodded and replaced the globe on the desk. “No change,” he said   
glumly. “She’s never going to come out of the coma, is she?”

Illyria moved closer to the desk and inspected its contents.

“What’re you lookin’ for, Blue?”

Illyria ignored the question. “What is this day?”

Spike scanned the office walls. Over the filing cabinet, beneath a picture  
of a Corps de Ballet, hung a calendar with one day crossed through. “Second  
of January,” he replied.

“Not your linear measurement, half-breed; the Song’s day and its gift.”

Spike paused, calculating in his head. “Think it’s number nine,” he said,  
finally. “Depends whose version you’re using.”

“You began with the Lord Jesus.” Illyria turned her glacial orbs on Spike,   
commanding him wordlessly to provide the details of the rhyme’s content.  
Spike narrowed his eyes and contemplated denying her imperious demand but  
thought better of it. Sparring with Illyria in the past had been a way  
of learning where his own strengths and weaknesses as a fighter lay. They’d  
come too far from those early days and spent too much time in one another’s  
company for conflict to be of any further use to either of them.

He noticed Illyria glance at Wesley who was making space for himself  
and Angel to sit by clearing books from the chairs. Spike thought he’d  
worked out pretty much where he belonged but Illyria was still searching  
for her place in his world. Now that Wesley was gone and Angel was off  
god alone knew where, it looked as if the lot of teaching Illyria something  
about the world had fallen into Spike’s lap. He cleared his throat and ran  
a hand through his hair.

“You know, it’s been a long time since I knew that song by heart. Ninth   
day?” He hummed a few lines to himself. “Nine ladies dancing,” he said finally.  
“Never saw any though.”

“The words of the song have significance, to the worshippers of your  
Lord,” Illyria announced.

Spike frowned, remembering something he’d learned as a boy. “Something  
to do with being reminders to the faithful. Buggered if I can remember  
what, though.”

“Try harder,” commanded Illyria. “I need to know why you have brought   
me here, to this time, to reopen wounds of sorrow at Wesley’s passing.”

Spike’s patience gave out. “Look, Your right _Royal Pain in my Arse_,  
I didn’t bring _you__You’re_ the one doing the Incredible Journey.  
_You_ work it out.”

Illyria moved towards him, reaching out and touching the side of his  
head. Spike flinched, expecting a blow but felt only a warm hand brushing  
his temple, fingers coming to rest above his eyes. He jolted as a spark coursed   
through his head, probing deep into his brain, awakening memories long buried.

“What did you just do?” he cried as Illyria broke contact and stepped   
away from him. Spike folded his arms and glared at her.

“Some powers remain in me,” replied Illyria. “I searched your memories  
in much the same way I can search those that remain of Winifred Burkle.”

Spike closed his eyes against the rising nausea that accompanied Illyria’s   
invasion of his brain. “Well don’t do it again, Spock. It’s not nice to   
go rummaging around uninvited in folk’s heads.”

She pulled herself regally straight. “I need no invitation. I am Illyria.”

“Yeah? Well you’re not the Bigwig in this world anymore. Thought you  
knew that a long way back.” Spike sat on the edge of Wesley’s desk and  
scrutinised her. “You really should make more of an effort to blend in,  
you know.”

Illyria looked at her clothing. “I should dress more in keeping with  
the season? There is little point to that, we cannot be seen.” She turned  
her attention to Wesley once more. “He speaks of the old times,” she observed.

“You were listening all the time you were doing whatever it was you did?”  
Spike blinked at her. “Why don’t you just delve into _their_ brains  
to pick what you want out of them?” Spike pouted and began mumbling to himself.  
“If I’d wanted a bleedin’ mind suck job, I’d’ve teamed up with that Glory  
bird.”

Illyria disregarded him and focused on the conversation Wesley was having  
with Angel.

“Fred’s team is concentrating all its efforts into finding a cure,” Spike  
heard Wesley say. “It’s one of the reasons Fred agreed to come here, to  
use the facilities to help people, starting with Cordelia.”

Angel’s face remained impassive. He’d long ago mastered the art of concealing   
his emotions. “You ever miss the old firm, Wes?” he asked.

Wesley thought for a moment. “Sometimes,” he admitted.

“I miss Cordy,” said Angel softly. “And being out there on the street.  
You ever miss that? Fighting Wolfram and Hart, not working for them?”

Wesley looked at him coldly. “Have I changed that much since we came  
here?” he asked.

“Spike said I’d sold my soul to the devil coming here,” said Angel said   
quietly, by way of an answer.

“I never did!” said Spike indignantly. “What I _said_ was…” He stopped  
remembering the meaning attached to the ninth verse of the carol. “_Souls_.  
That’s what this day’s all about.”

“Explain!” Illyria demanded.

“Nine Ladies Dancing. Nothing to do with partying. Each dance is a gift   
from the Holy Spirit – sort of crutches to keep the soul out of the devil’s   
grasp.” Spike bounced onto the balls of his feet. “Good one, Princess.”

Illyria tilted her head. “I do not follow the logic of your words.”

“No logic needed,” said Spike. “Wes and the Mighty Broody One are recollectin’  
the old days, fightin’ the good fight on the cheap, keepin’ their souls  
out of temptation. Can we go now I’m getting’ mighty peckish and I could  
do with a fag.”

“Wesley remembers something else,” said Illyria staring at the former   
Watcher.

Wesley was gazing at the empty chair beside his desk.

“Something he does not share with your leader,” Illyria continued.

“How’d you know that?” asked Spike pacing round the room, searching for   
evidence of anything edible.

“Wesley taught me much, sometimes no words were necessary.”

Wesley finally responded to Angel. “We all had good reasons for coming  
here, Angel. Or thought we did. I…” he paused, struggling with the emotion  
Illyria had sensed in him. “I don’t think any of us did it for bad reasons  
at any rate.”

Angel sighed heavily. “Who was it said the road to hell is paved with   
good intentions?” he asked bitterly.

Wesley nodded his assent to the quotation. “Someone much wiser than this  
mere mortal,” he said quietly.

Angel stood up and stretched. “Think I’ll go out and sweep the streets  
_For Auld Lang’s Syne_.”

Wesley waited until the door closed behind him before turning towards   
the office chair beside the desk.

“_Lilah_,” he breathed.

Spike spun round to where an attractive blonde was occupying what had   
been an empty chair. “Another ghost of Christmas Past? Thought we were done   
with the Dickens’ homage,” said Spike scathingly. “Where’d she come from   
anyway? She’s _hot_,” he added eyeing her appreciatively.

“This is no ghost. Wesley’s memory brought her here,” Illyria answered.

Wesley stood up and closed the small gap between himself and Lilah. “Why  
are you here?”

“Because you remembered,” Lilah replied. She flicked her eyes towards   
the snow globe. “You got my message.”

“It was you,” Wesley said, “at the party. But how...?”

“Shore leave,” replied Lilah, studying her nails.

Wesley smiled. “From Hell? Why does that not convince me?”

Lilah raised her eyebrows. “Still don’t trust me, Wes? What do I have   
to do to persuade you?” She picked Wesley’s spectacles off his desk and put  
them on. “You want me to play at being that stick-insect scientist friend   
of yours again? You haven’t so much as kissed her under the mistletoe yet,   
have you?”

Wesley swallowed and reached out to take the spectacles out of her hands.  
“You shouldn’t be here, Lilah. Not now. I’ve done all I can for you.”

Spike opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, so the Bookworm got it on  
with a hot piece of Totty?” he cried. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Wesley is not a worm,” Illyria said abruptly.

Spike’s eyes widened even further as he caught the flash of fire in the   
sapphire eyes.

“He is...” Illyria paused, finding herself suddenly bereft of words for   
the first time since Spike had met her. “He _was_ much more than that…   
to me.”

“Well, gotta say, didn’t see that comin’. Who’d’ve guessed? The Ice Queen  
and Research Man. It‘s always the quiet ones.”

“The quiet ones?” Illyria switched her attention back to Spike.

“Yeah. The ones who no one notices ‘til they do something really amazin’  
and surprise everyone.” He paused, remembering the quiet one he’d met years   
ago. “Tara. She surprised me no end. Shame about how she died. No one deserves  
to go like that.”

Illyria closed her eyes.

“Hey! What’re you doin’ now?” Spike was seized by a moment of panic as  
he felt the room slipping away and the earth tilting from under him. “We’re  
gonna have to fix the way you do this. It’s gettin on my wick.”  


  


  
  


  



	11. On the Tenth Day of Christmas ...... Ten Lords A-Leaping

  


  


© Bogwitch  


**On the Tenth Day of Christmas… Ten Lords A-Leaping, by  
Bogwitch**

** _21st December 2000_ **

This time the new location was an alleyway between two warehouses. Judging  
by the warm temperature and the familiar scent of brine on the sea breeze   
\- that mingled here with the acrid stink of piss – Spike realised they were   
back in Sunnydale again, and in one of the many alleys that criss-crossed   
through the rough warehouse district near the port.

The majority of the townspeople, who knew better than to wander into the   
less reputable parts of town if they could help it, usually avoided the area  
at night, and instead it was mainly populated by the low lives of Sunnydale   
society and the demons that preyed on them. Here there were easy pickings   
for hungry demonkind, desperate people too high or too drunk to care that   
they risked becoming food for a vampire nest or victims to more human predators.   
Sunnydale was a dangerous place and they had already determined their position   
on the food chain.

This alley was as anonymous as all the rest, and, with no obvious landmarks   
in view, it was hard to tell exactly where they were. It was dirty and dark,   
and only the elderly security light, that clung to the brick above a rusty   
warehouse door, gave out any illumination - just enough light with which   
to pick out a safe path through the trash that littered the ground. Beside   
the door, spotlighted in the weak beam from the light, was a large, green   
dumpster, crammed to the brim with damp cardboard and bags of kitchen scraps,   
that spilled onto the concrete when they split. Not a pleasant place for a  
vampire to skulk; but sure enough, Spike noticed his past self, hidden in  
the shadows next to the dumpster’s rusted hulk, slowly pulling at his half-smoked  
cigarette as he waited.

Thinking back and trying to locate this moment in his memory, he found   
it wasn’t one he particularly recalled; he’d spent an awful lot of the past   
century lurking in alleys of one sort or another and had smoked a lot of cigarettes.  
He just hoped this wasn’t going to be one of his darker moments.

“We’ve gone up in the world,” he said, looking around and ignoring his   
past self. He wished he had a cigarette of his own, but unfortunately, his   
new pack was back in the grocery bag on the motel room bed.

Illyria was ignoring both of him. Instead, her glare bored into the warehouse   
door as if she would somehow develop laser vision and melt it before them.   
The door, not understanding it should have dissolved into gloop, held its   
shape and the sound of music seeped through it from within the small warehouse.   
_Carols again_.

“Okay…” Seeing as Illyria was so fascinated with the door and not with   
him, Spike went to open the door for her. “Shall we?”

But before he could open it, it swung wide on its corroded hinges and  
Tara stumbled out.

“Bye Stuart!” Tara waved goodbye to someone inside. “See you tomorrow.”

There was an unclear reply and Tara let the door swing shut. She gathered  
herself together, pulling her bag into a comfortable position held tight   
against her chest; a defensive posture, as if doing so would ward away muggers   
or worse.

Spike turned back to Illyria, as “So what’s Red’s girl going to show us?”

“The witch gives her time freely so that others can be comfortable, yet  
she takes nothing for herself.”

They watched as Tara took a cautious look both ways down the alley before  
striding briskly towards the main street, her heavy skirts swishing round   
her clumpy, unfeminine boots. Spike watched her go. She’d been dead two and  
a half years now, and although he hadn’t given her much thought in that time,  
the world seemed a harsher place without the gentle witch.

“Good bird, Tara,” he gestured vaguely in her direction, although Illyria   
took little notice. “Never had a bad word to say about anyone – even me.   
But I don’t see what this is going to tell us…”

“Wait,” Illyria commanded.

Past Spike ground out his cigarette on the dumpster, leaving a small ashen   
smudge on the rough metal. Unseen and unheard by his quarry, he pushed off   
the wall and followed her silently.

“You know, your bag isn’t going to protect you from the nasties, Luv.”   
He said in a deep purr as his stride fell into place behind her.

Tara jumped as he spoke, losing her grip on her purse and dropping it  
with a clatter as the contents spilled out in every direction. “Sp… Spike?”

She stuttered.

He circled her menacingly, as if playing with prey he couldn’t touch,  
while she knelt to gather up the wayward items - a disparate collection  
of girly and witchy bits and pieces. “Don’t worry, not gonna eat you.” Despite  
looking as if he’d like nothing better, he put a finger to his temple and  
tapped it. “Chip remember?”

“What are you…?” she said, quickly grabbing up a stray tampon before he  
noticed it roll under his boot. She was trying very hard not to appear intimidated,   
but her hands shook as she stuffed her things back into her bag.

“Looking for the Slay… A fight,” he told her, but a dent had now been  
firmly made in his Big Bad armour. “Yeah, that’s right. A fight. Grrr.  
Always a few demons near the homeless shelter lookin’ for an easy snack.”

“And you know that from your own experience?” Tara asked, getting to her   
feet.

“I might at that.” Spike smiled unpleasantly, charmed by her uncharacteristic   
boldness. “So then, what brings you to the bright lights of this part of   
Sunnyhell? Red not keeping you satisfied?” he leered, with a roll of his tongue  
and a cock of his eyebrow.

“I’m volunteering here. They always need help at Christmas,” Tara told   
him. The bag had returned to the clutch of her bosom, and she clung to it   
for security.

Spike nodded. His future self knew that he’d already known that. As usual,   
he’d made it his business to know exactly where every member of the Scoobys   
were, and had worked out how each of them would be spending their Christmas.   
Tara was at a loose end, while Willow returned to her parents for a Hanukkah   
she barely believed in. So to fill the time, Tara was spending her Christmas   
helping the homeless instead.

“That keep you from being some demon’s dinner, will it?” Past Spike asked.

“I k…know a couple of useful spells and Willow made me a protection charm,”   
but Tara didn’t sound convinced.

“Sounds grand. Tell you what, I’ll walk you back home and maybe nothing  
will get a nip of you. Just be sure to put a good word in for me with the  
Slayer,” Spike frowned, looking intently at the girl for a reaction. “Make  
sure she’s over any grudges or anything like that.”

Spike cringed at worried tone in his past self’s voice. Had he really  
been that pathetically desperate? Thinking back to this time, just after  
the solider boy had bunked off to the jungle, he remembered he’d tried everything  
he could think of to change Buffy’s perception of him, and he realised that   
_yes_, he _had_ been that wretched. He’d been as lonely as  
hell; with endless nights spent under the tree in Buffy’s garden, full of  
longing for a girl that hated his guts, craving her company with every waking  
moment while being too nervous to approach her, lest she blamed _him_   
for what had happened with her ex. It was no surprise, in hindsight, that   
she’d ignored his clumsy advances entirely. Still, even with all that in   
mind, they’d been happier times, before Buffy’s death or sex or souls got   
in the way. Spike wished he could tell his former self to give it up now,   
to get out before it all went to hell, but when he really thought about it,   
Spike wouldn’t have traded the last few years for the world.

Agreeing to his past self’s offer, Tara set off towards the University   
and home, and he stuck by her side as if it was the most natural thing in   
the world for him to be doing. The unlikely pair walked on in a companionable   
silence for a while, but although Tara had the protection of the Big Bad   
for the night, she never really relaxed.

It was as they strolled onto the UCSD campus and turned towards her dorm   
that Tara finally spoke up. She was palpably nervous, not really sure what  
to make of the vampire beside her. “I wanted to thank you.”

“Alright. Why’s that, Pet?”

“For helping me stand up to my father.”

“The guy’s an arsehole,” Spike nodded. “A right family you have there.   
You’ll be better off once you realise that.”

“I think I have,” she nodded.

There was another lengthy silence as they crossed the quadrant, as Tara  
was deep in thought. “But I miss them,” she said, eventually. “Especially  
now. Willow has her Mom and Dad and it’s been… You know, quiet with her  
gone.”

“Not fancying Hanukkah with the in-laws, then?” Spike started to rummage   
in his pocket for another cigarette.

“Oh God no,” Tara smiled. “Christmas is bad enough. I don’t need another  
Holiday to not fit in with. Dad always made sure I remembered that.”

“Huh,” Spike lit up the cigarette, much to the envy of his future self.  
“I’ll wager Daddykins was a fun guy at Christmas.”

"Christmas was always tough for us," Tara sighed. "Mom and I never quite   
fit dad's idea of perfect Christians."

Spike smiled. "I can imagine."

Her confidence growing, Tara flicked a bit of her blonde hair from her   
eyes. It appeared that she still didn’t know quite what to say. "So what   
do vampires do at Christmas?"

Spike shrugged. "The usual, visit the family, go carol singing, pass out   
in front the telly."

"No. I mean really."

Spike’s brow’s narrowed. "We eat people, Luv. Evil doesn't really understand   
the spirit of Christmas."

“Oh,” she said, embarrassed.

“I stay in mostly,” he said, taking pity on her, “even before the chip,  
there was never much going on.”

“It must be lonely,” she said, gauging his reaction from the corner of   
her eye.

He looked at her, tilting his head. “What do you mean, Pet?”

“I mean for you. I heard the local demons…”

He shrugged, and said unconvincingly. “I have Harmony.”

“Is that why you out here looking for Buffy?”

“Am not,” he protested. “I hate the bint. Just wanted to find a good fight   
is all. Slayer’s usually at the centre of it.”

They’d arrived at the entrance to Tara’s dorm. Tara paused and rooted  
around in her bag for the key. “I guess this is me.”  
“Yeah, looks like.”

“Thank you for the walk home,” Tara said, as she pulled open the door.

“’S okay,” Spike shuffled a bit, like an apprehensive new boyfriend at   
the end of a first date. “If you need some company… You know, while Red’s   
away an’ all…”

Tara looked at him with nervous surprise, then with a kind understanding.

“Not that I care or anything…” Spike added.

“No, I wasn’t thinking that,” Tara reassured him. “I was going to do my  
Yule ritual, but I could do it later if you like.”

Spike waved her off. “Nah, it’s okay. I don’t want to disturb you or anything…”

Tara smiled. “You can come in, Spike.”

He gave her a genuine smile as he ground the butt of his cigarette out   
under his boot, that made it quite apparent how much her gesture meant to   
him.

As Spike and Illyria followed them inside, Illyria watched them carefully.   
“You wished for the company of others. Even of those that you professed to  
hate.”

Spike shrugged. “You would too, if you had to go home to Harmony.”

***

The small dorm room Tara shared with Willow was decorated for the season  
with an eclectic collection of fairy lights, wreaths of evergreens and holly  
bunches balanced jauntily on picture frames. A snowy ridge of Christmas  
cards spanned a couple of shelves; a mixture of penguins in woolly hats,  
inappropriate Angels and nativity scenes, wintry Victorian cottages and  
Ten Lords A-Leaping. Opposite them, on the window ledge, Tara lit a collection  
of stumpy white candles that held the darkness at bay with the flicker of  
their soft glow.

Waiting in a corner, a small altar had been set up on a side table covered   
in white cloth. Three candles, one each of red, white and, green, waited   
inside a circle of woven ivy strands. Underneath a small section of tree branch  
had been placed inside a small crucible, ready for burning as a Yule Log.

While Tara slung her coat onto a chair and started to busy herself making   
a quick meal, Past Spike settled on the bed, not having found anywhere more   
comfortable to sit. Instantly at home, he rested his head back against a   
fuzzy pink, fake fur cushion, a hard, monochrome monster incongruous against   
the rich jewel colours of the patched velvet throw. As he relaxed, he looked   
up at the little wreath of mistletoe that was pinned onto the headboard of   
the bed, and grinned wickedly.

Illyria was staring at the decorations. “The adornments in this room are   
fashioned differently.”

Spike reached out and picked at some holly. “Yeah, the little witches  
are all nature and lovin’.”

“Yet again the green is dead,” Illyria took the mistletoe wreath from  
the bed and inspected it. She held it out for him to see. “What is the  
significance of this?”

“Depends again on who you ask to explain it,” Spike replied. “The little   
witches weren’t into all the Christian parts of Christmas, but the older   
pagan parts.”

“Explain this to me,” she ordered.

“Mistletoe is for kissing under, dunno why. The holly is supposed to be  
the crown of thorns Christ wore as he died on the cross – but there were  
older meanings, which the Christians adapted.”

“My crown was no wreath made from the Greenleaf, but was made from the   
bones of my many foes. Their bodies torn apart by the crush of my armies.”   
Then, as if she hadn’t said anything so appalling, she asked. “This one also  
speaks of something called ‘Yule’. What is this?”

“Yule’s another name for Christmas, innit? Though I bet it means something   
different to her,” Spike pointed at Tara, making her instant soup. “The witches  
celebrate the season as ‘Yule’. It’s the Winter Solstice, the longest night  
of the year.”

“This I understand,” Illyria’s head twitched. “The human tries to beat   
back the dark with candlelight. She seeks to bring hope in the darkness.   
She cannot prevail as long as this world turns, for next year it will be   
dark again. It is pointless.”

“Hope is never pointless, duchess.” Spike told her, sitting himself down   
on Willow’s empty bed. “It’s one of the things that gets us through.”

Illyria’s head snapped towards him. “There is no hope for me here. My  
world is gone and this one is repugnant to me. I do not wish to remain here,  
yet I am bound to it.”

Spike snorted. “Join the club.”

Illyria strolled over to the altar and ran a finger down a candle. “What   
does she hope to achieve?”

“I need to call down the sun.” Tara said suddenly, looking over her shoulder   
at Spike’s past self.

Everyone in the room turned to her in surprise.

“She can hear you?” Spike asked Illyria.

“She does not speak to us, yet she answers my question.” Illyria replied,  
peering at the Yule log. She sniffed it curiously before replacing it in   
the cauldron.

“You what?” Past Spike asked.

“The ritual. I need to call the sun back. I think I can do it with you   
here.”

Past Spike sat up. “Whoa there, missy, vampire here! Not wanting the sun  
back anytime soon. Don’t wanna get flambéed on the way home.”

“No, no, it’s not like that,” she reassured him. “It’s just symbolic.  
But Willow has had this idea for a spell that works as a little ball of  
sunshine. Buffy could use it to help her slay.”

Past Spike looked surprised. “Just don’t do that near me.”

“We’ll try,” Tara nodded, as she started to search through her shelves   
for something.

After a few moments, she opened a small trinket box and found what she   
was looking for inside. Grasping it, she turned to the vampire sprawled on  
her bed and held out her hand. In her palm was a small velvet pouch with   
a pentagram embroidered on it. “I made you this.”

Spike took it gingerly. “What is it, Pet?”

“It’s a Charm of Protection. I made it for you when Willow started on  
the Ball of Sunshine. It won’t stop the real sun harming you, but it should  
protect you from our spell,” Tara told him. “I didn’t want you to get hurt  
if we used it.”

The effect her words had on the vampire was as powerful as any magic.  
Spike stared up at her, amazed that she’d thought of him at all. He was  
speechless.

It was Illyria who broke the silence. “I do not understand why this has  
meaning for you. You help them, and they keep you protected.”

“It’s much more complicated than that, Precious. I doubt Will gave me  
a thought at all when she was working on that. Not at first anyway. But  
Tara did.” Spike shook his head bitterly. He'd miss the good witch. The  
ladies they loved had mistreated them both - sad that. He got to his feet  
and looked back at Illyria. “That’s your Charity for you. She looked after  
us all as if we were all her family, which was good of her considering her  
real one.”

“Family,” Illyria said, tasting the word.

“Yeah,” Spike told her. “Christmas is a time when people are supposed  
to be with the people they love. Seems they’re more likely to be saddled  
with the relatives, than anything.”

Illyria listened, seemingly absorbing his words into the gestalt of information   
she had learnt. “Good. We shall look at this next.”

  
  
  


  


  



	12. On the Eleventh Day of Christmas ..Eleven Pipers Piping

  


  
© Hesadevil  


  
**On the Eleventh Day of Christmas… Eleven Pipers Piping,  
by Hesadevil**  
**_Christmas Eve, 24th December 2004_**

“Where are we?” Spike whirled round through a full 360, his coat billowing   
behind him in the cold breeze. “Bugger it, Blue. What’re we doin’ back   
_here_?” he growled, recognising the alleyway behind the Hyperion.

Illyria didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed her hand against the rear   
door of the hotel and concentrated. “Angel, he has been here.”

“State the bleedin’ obvious, why don’t you? Seem to remember a dragon   
and the host of Mordor bein’ here as well.”

“No!” Illyria raised her eyes to the skyline. “He has been here again.  
There is something further which he will show me.”

“’Bout Christmas? Thought we’d just about got it covered.”

Illyria tilted her head. “There is something missing.”

Spike snorted and held up his hand. “Don’t think so. Food, drink, parties,   
promises, presents.” He counted off each digit in turn.

Illyria continued to stare at him, unblinking.

Spike thought for a moment. “Nope,” he said, finally, “can’t think of   
anything.” He looked up as a scrap of something red floated down from the   
rooftop. It was the remains of a Christmas banner bearing the letters S A  
N in white against a background of holly leaves. “Unless you… Did we _do_

Santa Claus?” he asked, frowning.

“Santa Claus?”

“Yeah, you know. Big bloke. Built like a Troll. Red suit. Drives a sleigh.”

Illyria flicked her head, in a bird-like shake of denial.

“Delivers presents to the kids?” Spike paused. “Or eats ‘em, depends  
which version you’ve heard… Anyway, ‘s too late. We’ve missed him. He only  
works Christmas Eve. Lucky bugger...” Spike trailed off as he saw Illyria  
close her eyes and take a deep breath. He felt himself lifted into the  
air on a wave of power.

“Wait. Illyria!” he shouted in alarm.

The lights of Los Angeles rushed away beneath his feet and the sky swirled   
through a maelstrom of colour and sound. Spike pulled his coat in tight   
and wrapped his arms around himself to prevent it being ripped off by the   
buffeting waves surging around them. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.   
The sky was a boiling sea of warring elements as Illyria fought for control   
of time and space. Energy crackled around them, splitting clouds into hailstorms  
and punching through barriers as daybreak gave way to nightfall and nightfall  
disappeared into a new dawn. Spike began to wonder if they would ever break  
through to where Illyria was taking them or if they were doomed to remain  
trapped in a time-loop of endless sunsets and sunrises.

At last the turmoil eased and Spike opened his eyes. He wished he hadn’t.  
Below him, he could see the streets of Los Angeles approaching rapidly.  
He glimpsed a golden star atop a huge Christmas tree, which glittered with  
thousands of lights, and tens of thousands of ornaments. As Illyria continued  
their turbulent descent, snow began falling on the white Californian fir  
marking the location of The Grove shopping mall. Spike braced himself for  
a rough landing and closed his eyes again against the sight of the pavement  
rushing upwards to meet him.

“Bloody Hell, Tinkerbell, another trip like that and I’m jumping ship.”   
His attempt at a break-fall had resulted in one crumpled, annoyed vampire   
coming to rest against a fire hydrant bearing the mark of M. Greenberg &amp;   
Sons. “Ugh! I have to stop drinking on an empty stomach.”

Illyria ignored his complaint and strode off rapidly, heading towards   
bright lights of the shopping streets of Beverley Boulevard, and the crowds.

“Hey! Wait up!” Spike picked himself up and yelled after her. Grumbling   
softly to himself, he sprinted after her.

Closer to the shops, the air was filled with piped music and, as they   
neared Macy’s department store, Spike could clearly hear the opening bars   
of _Frosty the Snowman_. He groaned. “Oh, no. No, no, no. We are _not_   
repeating anything, Illyria.” he called.

Illyria stopped suddenly in front of a window display and held up her   
hand as Spike squealed to a halt behind her. “Silence, vampire,” she commanded,   
“and explain.”

“Can’t do the second if I do the first,” Spike protested. “Which is it  
to be, Highness?” he asked smirking at her.

Illyria considered for a second. “Your complaint is reasonable,” she  
replied. “The first is waived. Continue to the second.”

Spike looked at the scene in front of them where a group of small children   
had gathered in front of the animated window display. They were gazing,   
open mouthed at the moving figures, delight shining in their eyes and lighting  
their faces. Older children chatted excitedly and pointed at characters,  
squealing with pleasure at the antics of their favourites enacting scenes  
that never appeared in the film. Behind them, parents watched their offspring;  
some took photographs, holding the cameras up for their families to see  
the images they’d captured.

Spike grimaced. “Parents bring their kids out to see the displays. ‘S   
part of the whole ShowTime gig that’s Christmas nowadays. Makes me want to  
puke. In a couple of hours, all this proud Mom and Dad stuff’ll be gone and  
the kids’ll be tearing one another’s eyes out.”

“And that?” Illyria gestured towards a young man who had taken his son  
by the hand and was leading him towards the doorway beside which a sign  
read ‘This way to Santa’s House’.”

“What _is_ this? _Miracle on 34th Street_ meets _Groundhog  
Day_?” grumbled Spike. “Santa Claus isn’t real. It’s a myth, a story  
to keep the kids on the straight and narrow all year.” He scanned the crowds.  
“Besides, we’re never gonna find Angel here, Bluebird, let’s go back. I’m  
getting mighty peckish.”

“All myths have their roots in reality,” Illyria countered. “How does   
this one work?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Kid behaves himself, Santa gives him what he  
wants for Christmas. Kid misbehaves, he doesn’t get anything but coal.  
That’s all.” Spike tilted his head and looked towards the loudspeakers,  
which were belting out another Christmas ‘classic’.

_#You better watch out  
You better not cry,  
You better not pout I’m tellin' you why,  
Santa Claus is coming to town,  
He's making a list checkin it twice,  
He's gonna find out whose naughty or nice,  
Santa Claus is coming to town.#_

“Second thoughts, there _might_ be a bit more to it than that,”  
Spike said after a moment’s reflection. “I remember chattin’ with Anya

‘bout the good old days when she was a vengeance demon. Said she missed  
the old Santa, the one with the Dark Helper. Seems it was his job to drag  
all the naughties off while Santa gave sugar and spice to the nice folk.  
Not just kids, either.” Spike chuckled. “She said Santa dropped the dark  
assistant when he sold out to Coca Cola sometime in the 30s.”

“That is not explaining,” said Illyria coldly. “It is confusing. You  
name people I do not know and speak of a time when I lay at my rest within  
the Deeper Well.”

“Yeah, well, like I said a way back, I’m no expert. And I seem to recall  
you askin’ me to enlighten you through my experiences. So, if you don’t  
follow what I’m gettin’ at, that’s too bad.” Spike grinned at her.

She stiffened suddenly and headed towards the doorway. “Angel has passed  
this way.”

Spike sighed and started to follow her into the store. Before he could  
do so, the door opened again and a young man dressed in an elf’s costume  
came out.

“You sure there’s nothing wrong?” the youth called over his shoulder.

Behind him, a familiar figure emerged from the doorway. “Why do you always  
think that when I drop in on you?”

Spike raised his eyebrows in surprise. _Angel_.

“Not _quite_ who I had in mind when I described Santa,” Spike said   
to Illyria who had followed the pair out of the store.

Angel fell into step beside the young man, who eyed him with amusement.

“I’m having a déjà vu moment,” the boy said, smiling.

“Déjà vu? Oh, you mean last time we went for coffee…” Angel  
paused and his frown gave way to a lopsided grin.

Illyria urged Spike to join her, following Angel and the boy through  
the crowds, weaving their way between groups of shoppers. Behind them, a  
figure, dressed in the multi-coloured costume of the Pied Piper, stepped  
out of the shadows. He took out a sheet of paper from his tunic and checked  
its contents, then looked closely at Angel and the boy, nodded his head,  
and followed them.

“Not that I’m not glad to see you,” the young man said as he resumed  
the conversation with Angel. “And in one piece by the looks of things.”

Angel shrugged. “Guess so.”

“So you won, huh?”

Spike raised an eyebrow at Illyria. “Who’s the kid?

“You do not remember him?” Illyria shifted her attention to Spike.

“Should I?” Spike asked, his brow creasing as he searched his memory.

Illyria slowed time with a flick of her wrist. All motion on the street   
ceased. Spike could no longer hear the piped music, or the sounds of traffic.   
“The youth who Angel brought into the training room, the day I adopted you   
as my pet.”

“Hey! First off, we’ve talked about this. You _agreed_. I’m nobody’s  
_pet_,” Spike argued. “And second. Yeah, I do remember. The  
case Wes took on.” Spike scrutinised the young man’s face. “That’s the  
lad. Irish name – Connor or some such.”

Illyria studied both Angel and Connor, concentrating on the emotions  
running between them, perceiving them as waves of light. “This is who Angel  
has been searching for,” she announced.

Spike gave her a puzzled look. “Why?”

“I do not know,” replied Illyria, resuming time once more. “I sense something   
between them. Something I have encountered before on this journey through  
the Days of Christmas. It is not dissimilar to what I sense between you  
and Angel.”

“What? Blinding hatred?”

Connor and Angel stopped in front of the window displays and watched  
the remaining groups of children and their parents.

“I loved coming here when I was a kid. Dad used to bring me to get me   
out from under Mom’s feet.” Connor grinned up at Angel. “_And_ to stop  
me wrecking the house looking for presents.”

Angel gave a small smile. “_My_ Da’ would take me down to the beach  
to play hurley barefoot on the sand,” he said with a faraway look in his  
eyes.

“Yeah?” asked the youth curiously. “You never told me about when you  
were a kid. What else did you do?”

Angel watched the last of the children entering the door to Santa’s house,   
and glanced at the piper who had placed his cap on the pavement and was   
playing _The Twelve Days of Christmas_ on his flute. “I’d be sent   
out to pay the Waits for their carols,” he said. “And I’d gather the holly   
and ivy for the decorations. Da’ would carve out a turnip for the large red   
candle, and when Kathy was still a baby, I’d be the one to help light it on  
Christmas Eve. My Da’ and I would hold the lighted taper together and the  
candle would burn throughout the night; lighting the way for the Holy Family.”

Angel gazed at Connor. “I never got to do any of that stuff with my own son.”

Spike snorted. “Think the Big Poof’s lost it. ‘S that dragon’s blood  
that did for him - poisoned his brain.”

Connor looked at his watch. “Better go for that coffee,” he said. “I’m  
due back in an hour.” He led the way into a dimly lit side street. “Short  
cut,” he explained. “There’s a quiet place not far from here.”

Connor was cut off by the appearance of the piper in front of them and  
another, darker figure, materialising out of the air beside him. The piper  
placed his flute to his lips and began playing. As he did so, his companion  
came into focus; a black demon dressed in the fitted tunic and hose of a  
Medieval Moor; carrying a birch switch in one hand and a scimitar in the  
other.

“Co-workers?” asked Angel.

Connor shook his head and Angel immediately stepped between him and the   
demon.

“Can’t be….” Spike shook his head in disbelief. “He was given the old   
_heave ho_ ages ago.”

“Angel does not ask a reasonable question?” asked Illyria. She examined   
the piper and the demon, her eyes darting from them to Connor and back again.  
“Yet they wear similar attire.”

“Yeah,” Spike drawled. “’Cept the boy’s is just a costume. Whereas these  
other two – _they’re_the real thing_. That’s_ the Dark Helper.” Spike  
gestured at the demon.

Illyria opened her mouth to ask another question but closed it again  
and watched with interest as the demon launched his attack.

He lunged at Angel; the scimitar slicing through the air as Angel side-stepped  
gracefully. The demon’s momentum carried him forward towards Connor instead,  
who grasped him by the arm and flipped him over arm onto the pavement.  
Having dropped the scimitar in his fall, the demon sprang to his feet,  
whirling the switch above his head. The birch cracked like a whip as he  
flicked it, inches from Connor’s ear.  
“The piper has piped your name,” the demon hissed. “Prepare to atone.”

He cracked the switch again with a cry and this time, it struck Connor  
across the cheek. The gash that opened began to bleed copiously, the blood  
running in tracks down his neck and staining the green fabric of his tunic.  
He stood his ground and the demon raised the switch to strike a second  
time, but before he could Angel had caught his hand and wrenched the birch  
from his grasp.

“The piper got it wrong,” Angel snarled. “Any atoning to be done, it’s  
_me_ you want.”

The piper lowered his flute and the demon vanished, fading into the night  
air as quickly as it had materialised earlier.

“Black Peter was only doing his job,” the piper said quietly. “Santa’s  
list is never wrong. Those who have done good, Santa rewards; those who  
have done bad, the Dark Helper punishes. _Both_ your names are on the  
list; Angel, the vampire; Connor, his son.” He raised his flute and began  
playing once more summoning the demon from the dimension into which it had  
disappeared.

Angel grasped the piper by the throat and hoisted him into the air. The   
magus dropped his flute and struggled for breath, clutching at Angel’s hands   
in a feeble attempt to release them.

“Son?” Spike croaked in surprise. “Connor is Angel’s _son_? He never  
told me that! Who… ? How… ?” He stopped, unable to process the notion of  
a vampire fathering a child.

“Get out of my sight,” Angel growled, releasing the piper. “And if you  
or any of Santa’s other little helpers ever threaten me or my family again…”  
he shifted into game face, “you _will_ have Angelus to deal with.”

The piper fled, leaving Angel and Connor alone in the street. As he reached   
the junction with the main street, the piper stopped and turned. “You haven’t  
escaped,” he shouted. “Black Peter is waiting for my summons!”

Illyria moved closer to observe their interaction, as Angel led Connor  
to a streetlight and examined his wound.

“It’s healing already,” he said, rubbing his thumb along Connor’s jawline.

Connor grinned. “Some of the things I got from you come in handy,” he   
admitted.

“You sayin’ there are other things that aren’t?” Angel asked.

“I don’t sing too good,” Connor replied.

Angel chuckled softly. “You still want that coffee?”

Connor watched the retreating piper. “Could do with an explanation,”

he said, indicating the discarded flute.

Angel picked the instrument up and examined it. “Where do I begin?” he  
asked, frowning.

“The list?” said Connor as they moved off together. “Is that like some  
kind of hit list? Has Wolfram and Hart put out a contract on us?”

“No. Well, yes they _have_, but that’s not what this is,” replied  
Angel.

He looked at the pipe and brought it down across his knee, snapping it  
in two. As it broke, there was a flash, accompanied by a distant wail of  
pain and anger.

“Guess that’s the end of the Dark Helper,” said Angel. He gestured at   
Connor’s costume. “Santa’s helpers weren’t _always_ elves.” He paused,   
noting Connor’s incredulous look.

“You’re not tellin’ me Santa’s real?” Connor laughed.

“As real as vampires and demons,” replied Angel. “And he _has_ his   
hit-list – like in the song the store was playing earlier.”

“And that Black Peter guy was his hit man,” concluded Connor.

Angel beamed. “Smart boy.” He stared fondly at his son. “Connor, I never  
got to do any of…” He paused, struggling to find the words to express what   
he was feeling. “Never got to _be_ there for you when you were growing  
up, to show you things… like a father _should_. But you showed me.”

Connor raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I love you Connor,” Angel continued. “You made me feel… human. Only  
two people…” Angel stopped, struggling for control of his feelings. “Only  
_you_ and _Buffy_ ever made me feel human again.”

“Who’s Buffy?” asked Connor as they entered the coffee shop.

Illyria returned to Spike’s side. He was leaning against the wall, staring  
into space, his jaw working furiously as he battled with his emotions.

“They are family,” Illyria said, finally. “They feel love for one another.  
Just as I saw between you and your mother.”

Spike snorted. “_Love_,” he said bitterly. “Why didn’t he _tell_  
me? All that guff in Rome about _moving on_. Bollocks! He had his  
own ready made family just waiting to sweep him into the bosom.” Spike  
straightened his back and pushed off from the wall, the anger returning  
once more. “Couldn’t bear to let me have a clear crack at her myself. That’s  
what it was.” He strode down the street towards the shop.

“This is jealousy,” Illyria said, falling into step beside him.

“Damn right it is! Bastard thought he’d have his cake and eat it. Well,   
we’ll see about that.”

“Your revenge will wait until we have completed our journey.” Illyria   
blocked Spike’s path.

“Get out of my way, Illyria,” Spike snarled. “This is between me and  
Angel… And Buffy.”

“You would defy me again, over some woman, a mere mortal who is as dirt   
beneath my feet?” Illyria didn’t move.

“For _this_ woman, I’d defy a whole bleedin’ _pantheon_ of  
gods. Let one kick the snot out of me too. _An’_ I’d go to Hell and  
back; bloody well have been, one way or another.” Spike collected himself,  
preparing for whatever Illyria had in mind to show him the error of his  
ways. “Besides, this isn’t about _her_, not really,” he said when  
it became clear that Illyria wasn’t making a move to attack him. “It’s  
about him. Love’s meant to be about _truth_ and _trust_, not  
keeping things from people. Why didn’t he tell her? Why didn’t he tell  
_anyone_?”

Illyria didn’t answer.

“So he gets everything he wants – _again_. And I get chuff all,”   
Spike said bitterly.

Illyria tilted her head questioningly.

“Christmas – is not a good time to be alone,” Spike explained, pacing   
in front of the coffee shop. “Fred said it, back there. Anyone who enjoys   
Christmas, ‘s ‘cos they’re with people they love.” He paused, eyeing the   
fairy lights shedding a soft glow on the faces of Angel and Connor, facing   
one another across a small table inside the shop. “And there he is, Mr Cake   
and Eat it.” Spike gestured at father and son.

Illyria studied Spike’s face. “This is envy then.”

Spike stopped pacing. “No,” he sighed, deflating. “Not envy. More – lost  
opportunity.”

Illyria looked at the sky. “It need not be,” she said quietly. “There   
is one final thing you have to show me.”

Spike looked down at his feet, which seemed glued to the spot. He tried   
lifting his left foot but the muscles in his legs refused to co-operate.   
“Oh, now come on, Blue. We’ve been at this long enough. There’s nothin’ left.”

“There is,” replied Illyria. “Day Twelve.”

  
  
  
  


 

  



	13. On the Twelfth Day of Christmas ..... Twelve Drummers Drumming

  


  


  


  
© Bogwitch  


**   
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas… Twelve Drummers Drumming, by Bogwitch**

**_23rd December 2004_**

“So who’s next on your list then, Bluebell?” Spike asked, relieved that  
they had reached the final day of the song at last.

Illyria paused, apparently giving the matter great thought. “I wish to   
see your Buffy. This woman who has the love of two vampires must indeed be  
special.”

“Yeah, she is.” Spike frowned; after his outburst, he might have known   
that Illyria would want to see Buffy. Their little trip so far had been bittersweet  
all told, but this was too personal – and too soon. “I don’t think that’s  
such a good idea, you know. She’s moved on. It’s about time I did too.”

Illyria turned and scrutinised him. Her glare, devoid of warmth, felt  
like it penetrated through to his soul. “You protest that others may have  
feelings for this woman, yet you think she does not love you. You are a  
strange, contradictory creature.”

“Look, I know she doesn’t, okay?” Spike sighed. “Doesn’t mean I’m just   
gonna let the great ponce have her. C’mon, dontcha think it’s time to get   
back now? The groceries are getting warm. The blood won’t taste the same…”

“We will return to the time we left. Your nourishment will not be damaged.   
I wish to meet this Buffy. The Slayers were made from demonkind, yet they   
walk as mortals. Your Slayer is a curiosity. She died and yet lives on. I  
wish to see why she does not return the affections you have for her.”

The world flipped over once again and they were standing in a cemetery;  
an old one, judging by the state of the headstones and the way they were  
crammed into whatever space they could fit. Weathered, broken in places,  
old markers listed in the dry ground, while weeping angels grieved eternally  
over the tombs. The Italian names of their masters slowly disappeared into  
the forgetfulness of time, as the carvings that proclaimed them became weathered  
and lost under the lichens.

“Right,” Spike looked around at the tombs, bare but for the sombre sprays   
of flowers placed in memory of the dead, and doubtfully. “This is _very_   
Christmassy.”

The sound of ‘_We Three Kings_’ being cheerfully murdered by a polyphonic   
ringtone broke the silence of the dead’s eternal rest, lasting for a mercifully   
short time before it was answered by a familiar voice. “Hello? Hi Willow.   
What’s up? Was your flight okay?”

And there she was, strolling along the path. It was the first time Spike   
had seen Buffy properly for over a year, but the sketch he’d held in his   
memory had missed barely a detail. This was no brief glimpse across a crowded   
nightclub; he could see all too clearly how the weight of burden had been   
lifted from her shoulders. Her expression was bright and the dark circles   
of stress that had clouded under her eyes were gone. There was a spring to   
her step that caused the gentle wave in her hair to spring lightly as she   
walked and, for all the lip service he’d given in the last year to moving   
on, he was smitten all over again.

“Yeah, I’m just going to do a quick patrol. I’ll be back soon. I can’t   
wait to see you,” she told the witch on the other end of the line. “I doubt   
much will happen tonight,” she laughed and Spike thought he’d never heard   
her so carefree. “I know, I shouldn’t have said that! See you later. Bye!”

  
As she flipped the lid of the phone shut, she stopped and took a look  
about her. Seeing nothing suspicious, she frowned and continued walking.

“She is unimpressive for a great warrior,” Illyria observed.

Spike, his eyes still fixed on his elusive love, murmured in reply. “You  
should see her fight though. Always gave me a good run for my money.”

“She met you in combat, yet you both survive.”

Spike shrugged. “Our hearts weren’t in it.”

“She is a Vampire Slayer and you are a half breed. She let you and the   
dark one live.”

“Yeah, Buffy’s funny like that.”

“You are amused by the dereliction of her duty.”

“What?” Spike shook his head. “No. That’s not what I meant. Buffy’s a  
good person… Look it’s complicated and _private_. I don’t want to talk  
about it.”

Buffy had stopped again, her finely tuned senses warning her of danger.  
Warily, she slid the stake from its place tucked into the back of her jeans  
and waited, alert.

The attack came from behind. A terrible wolf-like creature, loping upright   
on long, bony legs, all claws and ravening teeth, it tore past Spike and   
Illyria, heading directly for the tasty girly treat before it.

It struck out at the Slayer with a sweep of its long wolverine arms, seeking   
to rend her apart with its enormous claws. She was tiny in comparison, under   
half its height, and she was able to nimbly jump aside, athletically dodging  
the blow and ducking under its next attack. Using her momentum, she countered   
with her own strike that landed with a hard crunch against its chest. The   
creature roared, enraged, and it lunged at her again, its great arms swooping   
in, slashing frantically in all directions. It had no skill, no discipline,   
just its ravenous bloodlust that sought only to devour its prey. Using its   
clumsiness, Buffy was able to bounce up and catch one of its arms with a   
kick like a wrecking ball. There was a snap as her foot hit its target, and   
the creature yelped in pain, but she failed to retreat in time, stumbling   
as she avoided the trailing, useless arm, and she caught a brush of a claw   
across her shoulder.

At the sight and smell of the shallow gash, Spike leapt forward without  
thinking, jumping onto the creature’s back, grasping it tightly around the  
neck. It howled angrily, its arms flailing as it tried to drag its assailant  
from its back. Spike clung on tight as it lurched and bucked, until he found  
some leverage and yanked, severing its spinal cord as the vertebrae parted  
with a sickening crack. Its raucous keening cut short, the creature went  
limp and it died where it collapsed at the shocked Slayer’s feet.

“I guess they don’t make ‘em like they used to,” she quipped, after a  
moment’s pause.

Spike looked up at her from his handiwork, breathing hard, but unnecessarily,  
with the thrill of the fight. It felt like the old times in the cemeteries   
of Sunnydale, times he remembered with great fondness. Him, her, the waxing   
moon and the bloodied corpse of something evil and deadly at their feet,   
he’d missed that feeling of partnership they’d shared.

Buffy was only an arm’s length away, but she couldn’t see him. Amazed,   
he reached for her, searching for connection, but not expecting her to feel   
his touch. He closed his hand and stroked her cheek; how odd she should feel   
so solid under his fingers when to her his touch was nothing.

Buffy flinched, gasping as she whirled around, looking for an assailant.   
“Who’s there?”

Stunned, Spike turned to Illyria. “She felt that!”

Illyria tilted her head. “It is curious. My power is diminished. She should   
not feel you.”

He turned back to Buffy. She’d relaxed after what seemed to her like a   
false alarm, but she was still on code red. “Buffy!” he called to her. “Buffy?   
Can you hear me?”

Buffy shivered in response. She’d felt something, her Slayer senses on   
overdrive, her blood racing with the promise of action.

“C’mon Buffy, I’m here!” Desperately he grabbed her shoulders.

“Spike?” she gasped. She started to reach for him, not knowing where he  
was, but knowing he was close. Her hands went right through him. “Spike?  
Oh my God, are you here?”

He wasn’t a ghost, not this time, but to her he was barely a voice on  
the wind. Luckily, he knew something about that, having learnt a bit from  
Pavayne about reality. If he could just focus…

To him nothing seemed to happen, but from the way Buffy’s eyes became  
huge in wonder and Illyria began to analyse him intently, he sensed his  
plan had worked. He was beginning to manifest, merging Buffy’s reality with  
his own until he was balanced precariously between the two, holding himself   
desperately on the threshold with all the strength of his will. He knew now  
how Illyria must feel, as her reduced powers kept them going on this caper.

Buffy remained speechless for a long moment. “Spike?” she managed to whisper,   
looking him over in disbelief. “You’ve come back?”

“Not exactly…”

She reached out again to touch and he tried to put his hand in hers, but  
reality didn’t seem quite solid. He could feel her; the warmth of her palm,  
the slight nervous perspiration, but she kept slipping from his grasp as  
she tried and failed to grip him in return.

“How? How is this possible?” she asked.

Spike looked at Illyria, but the god king remained inscrutable and invisible  
to Buffy. “Divine intervention, I think. Look, I don’t have long…”

“You’re not the ghost of Christmas past, are you? Because that’d be so   
lame.”

“I’m okay Buffy, thanks for asking. Someone brought me back…”

“I love you,” she said quickly, cutting him off.

“What?”

“I. Love. You,” she said slowly. “There. I’ve said it. I mean it. If I   
only have a moment then I don’t want to waste it. Not again.”

Spike brushed back a lock of her hair, not caring that to her it only  
felt like the breath of a faint breeze. “Buffy, it’s complicated and I  
don’t have time to explain. I’m not a ghost, but I’m not really here. I was  
in L.A. with Angel…”

“_You_ were with _Angel_?” she said, incredulously. “That I  
wish I'd seen.”

“Someone brought me back, Buffy. We’ve done some good work, Angel and  
me,” Spike frowned, still bitter about Angel keeping Connor a secret. “Even  
if the git decided to keep me out of the loop.”

“What are you talking about? Were you at Wolfram and Hart?” Buffy looked   
at him in confusion, but then dismissed it all. “Why are we talking about   
Angel anyway?”

Spike realised she was right; they shouldn’t spend the few precious minutes  
he could hold himself in her dimension talking through the Connor business.   
“I’ll explain, just not now. Things have got a bit hectic, but I do miss   
you.”

Her eyes filled with the suggestion of tears, diluting them into wide  
pools. “I miss you too.”

He moved into to kiss her, but stopped a moment before their lips could  
meet. “Just a minute.” He turned from Buffy to Illyria. “Illyria, You kept  
that wreath right?”

“Who’s Illyria?” Buffy asked.

“She’s part of the long story, Pet. We’re on the run together.”

Buffy took a step back, her lip quivering. “You’ve found someone else?”

“No!” He frowned. “Like you didn’t get it on with the Immortal anyway.”

“How did…?” she fumed. “_You_ were dead!”

Seeing that the conversation was spiralling out of control, Spike reassured  
her. “It’s not like that,” with a quick glance at the God King, he whispered   
conspiratorially. “She’s _blue_.”

“What like Smurfette? Or more in a _Blue Christmas_ way?”

“Only if Smurfette was evil.”

He turned back to Illyria again. Willow and Tara’s small mistletoe wreath  
was lying in her outstretched palm. He took it carefully and Buffy smiled   
as she saw it appear when it touched his hand.

“Look what I have,” he smiled back, moving close to her again. Their eyes   
locked in an intense gaze that indicated that nothing else in the world mattered  
to them right at that moment.

She never took her eyes off his, but she took the wreath he offered. “Handy.”

It was little more than a symbolic suggestion; a ghost of a kiss, light  
as a snowflake fading on the tongue, a nuzzled lip against lip that only  
one of them could actually feel. It couldn’t be a passionate kiss under  
the circumstances, but it carried promises of something much deeper. It  
was a pledge from each to the other, carried on only the finest of touches.

“I’ll get back to you, I promise,” he told her sincerely as they parted,   
their tryst cut short as he felt a tremor in Reality.

Illyria had begun to lose her grip on Time. However much he would like   
to stay, Buffy would have to wait. He let his own control slip and he melted  
from her view.

Illyria watched him as he backed away from Buffy, distancing himself from   
the temptation to stay. He glanced at Illyria and he noticed that she looked   
shaky, drained and unsteady on her feet. The vibrancy of the blue flush to  
her skin had paled into a shadowy pastel.

“I can hold us here no longer,” Illyria told him quietly.

Spike nodded with regret. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

As Illyria started to concentrate on their return, Spike took one last   
look back at Buffy. She was standing with her arms folded around her, looking   
small and lost amongst the tombstones. The mistletoe wreath was closed tightly   
in her hand as if she was scared that she would lose the only tangible thing   
she had of him. He didn’t know when he’d be able to see her again, if ever,   
so he tried to remember as much about her as he could, refreshing the colour   
of his memory.

He finally turned away as Illyria sagged, the last of her strength draining   
away. He caught her just as everything went black for the last time and they  
returned to that void.

***

The bare motel room looked particularly spartan after so much Christmas,   
only the garish bedspread and the blue tint to Illyria’s hair brought any   
colour to the basic room, but Spike hardly noticed as he maneuvered Illyria   
to the bed. His mind was a chaotic jumble of emotions that he needed to sort  
out, but Illyria needed him first.

“Our journey has wearied me. It shall not happen again,” she told him  
as she sunk down onto the mattress. He let her go and she fell back with  
a sigh.

Once she was comfortable, Spike made a grab for his cigarettes and lit   
one. “Thank god for that. Had enough of this meet and greet with the past.”

Illyria didn’t reply, instead she slipped into an exhausted unconsciousness.   
He covered her up with the comforter and switched on the telly, settling  
in a chair to collect his thoughts now that he finally had a moment to take   
stock. The journey had taken a blink of an eye in real time, but he felt   
like he really had lived through those twelve days. There was a lot to digest.

He took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked through a few channels,   
past infomercials, holiday specials of dumb home videos shows and re-runs.   
He finally settled on a Christmas parade of the Twelve Days of Christmas   
for the irony, although they had already reached the _Twelve Drummers Drumming_,   
but it didn’t matter because his attention was elsewhere.

There was too much to take in from this jaunt. Anya was dead, lost in  
the same battle he’d been. _Poor girl, she hadn’t deserved that in the  
end_. Rupert didn’t seem to be quite the git he appeared to be. Even  
Angel had managed to get a bloody son out of nowhere. But none of these  
things occupied his mind for more than a moment, as there was something  
else he’d rather think about.

He barely heard the melody of the trombones as they accompanied the drummers   
on the television. Buffy loved him, she’d said so, and she’d meant it. He   
allowed himself a few minutes to bask in the euphoria, before reality to   
set in. It wasn’t as if he could just drop everything and run to Buffy. Wolfram   
and Hart weren’t going to give up the chase because he wanted to be with   
Buffy, and Illyria herself, was a huge commitment. He couldn’t leave her to  
the world, and he wasn’t sure the world was ready to have her unleashed   
upon it alone.

He stared longingly at the phone for a moment, tempted to pick it up and   
just call Buffy. But indulging himself by returning to her would be selfish,   
and however much he wanted to, he couldn’t do it.

The phone remained untouched.

  


  


  


  
  


  


  



	14. Epilogue

  


  


  


  


  
© Bogwitch

 

**Epilogue,   
by Bogwitch**

**_Twelfth Night, Epiphany, 2005_**

_Bam_! Spike’s fist hit the wall again with a shuddering thud   
and it shook the flimsy motel room like a low magnitude earthquake. Illyria   
ignored it as she always did; he’d been doing that to vent his frustrations,   
on and off, for the last twelve days, and she had become quite bored with  
it.

It was Twelfth Night, and Christmas was officially over. Celebrating the   
season had proved difficult and impractical while on the run, and Spike hadn’t  
understood why they were bothering at all, but Illyria had been insistent,   
keen to experience the holiday first hand. Filtered through the twisted lens  
of her demonic translation, the holiday had become a twisted parody of itself.  
For a start, Illyria had insisted on a living tree, and once a suitable  
one had been found, it had been a triumph of makeshift splendor; as long  
as anyone didn’t look too closely at the threadbare tinsel - liberated from  
the main motel tree - the homemade ornaments made from sweetie wrappers and  
various demon parts still dripping with goo, it could look quite pretty in  
the candlelight. But they had left that tree miles behind them.

A few days after Christmas itself, they’d had to move on. A chance encounter   
in Walmart with Jackson from Accounting had seen them take to the road again   
in case their hideout was found. After that, they had dared not go out, except  
for travel and essentials, and they had spent the time watching hours of  
Christmas themed films or TV. Without the opportunity to go out and hit something  
evil, Spike had grown increasingly frustrated and there was no way to let  
off the head of steam that that had built inside him.

To that end, Spike had been stripping the room of its meagre decorations,   
pulling them down with a violence usually reserved for pummelling the local   
vampires to dust. Paper chains and snowflakes made from torn up magazines,   
unsent Christmas cards and the remains of a small plastic tree with a beheaded  
angel on top, all joined the heap made by a cheap Nativity set Spike had   
never been comfortable with, in the trash. But the task didn’t take long.

The job done, Spike sprawled out on the room’s only bed, and was staring   
at the TV without interest like he had for the past few days, as though his  
thoughts were really elsewhere. With him quiet and distant, Illyria decided  
this might be a good time to execute her plans.

Since their journey, Illyria had noticed that all was not well with her  
Pet. Spike was edgy and preoccupied, at times sullen, mopey, and uncharacteristically   
quiet, at others agitated and restless, snapping at her simple questions.   
Any attempt at inquiry was cut off curtly. She was displeased with this disrespect  
and she wondered if there was a way that she could regain his attention.

Over the next few days, with her decision made, Illyria watched Spike  
closely, pondering what gift she could give that would best suit her aims.  
She had learnt many things about this strange festival when Spike had shown  
her the Twelve Days, even if she had ignored much of what he’d said. He  
spoke in a strange manner, of things that meant nothing to her and she had  
learnt all that she needed through her own observations, or so she’d thought.

Much of it was confusing and contradictory. Christmas appeared to be a   
time of extravagance and indulgence, yet also of charity and kindness. The   
humans made great efforts to spend the holiday with families they hated or  
with friends they saw all year. People were meant to be happy, yet many were  
miserable. She didn’t want her Pet to be unhappy; this human world was human  
and loud, chaotic with individuals, she still relied on him to escort her.  
She would need to give something that would mean something to him.

She no longer had treasure beyond imagining, so jewellery was out, nor   
would she yet deign to visit a shop on her own. Attempts to contact his friends  
had proved pointless and irritating. One conversation had been particularly   
perplexing:

"You are the one called Buffy." Illyria had said.

"Yes, and you are…?”

"I am Illyria. My Pet needs you."

The voice on the other end of the line was confused. "Your Pet? You'll   
have to take your dog to the vet yourself. I can't help."

Illyria tried again. "My half breed misses you."

"I don't care if he's a half breed or a mongrel. I've never met your mutt."   
The voice was irritated now.

So was Illyria. "My half breed is not a dog. Spike needs to copulate."

"Er… I think you have the wrong number."

Click Brrr…

The phone line dead, Illyria realised that she needed to try something   
else.

The Tara witch had made a point of giving, even though she had little  
but her own time to offer. She’d touched Spike with her thoughtful kindness.   
Maybe something such as this would help to alleviate the feelings Illyria   
knew he was suffering. Like Tara, what Illyria could do was give a little   
something of herself.

Illyria did not experience love and wouldn’t have recognised it if she   
had. It was an emotion that she saw little point in. She had felt something   
akin for Wesley before his death, and it revolted her to think that she was  
that vulnerable, even if it was all but a shadow that had remained with the  
shell. Her Wesley was gone and would never return, and to her disgust, his  
death grieved her. She would not feel such emotion for her Pet, although   
she and Spike were similar that way, both separated from those with whom   
they had the deepest connection.

Of course, copulation was beneath her. She was Illyria, God King of the  
Primordium, she was not going to sully herself by fornicating like the beasts.  
Still, since their trip, she had understood that there was more to the abominable   
half-life that the mortals lived. Was she not fallen already, long separated   
from the glory of her reign? Did she not want to experience this domain,   
so that one day she could learn to control it?

The time was ripe and she approached the end of the bed, looming large   
in his line of sight and blocking his view of the television screen.

Illyria looked at Spike.

Spike looked at Illyria.

She looked some more.

“What?” He snapped, uncomfortable under her gaze. “Get out of the way,   
I’m watching this!”

His tone was insolent, and not a mode of address befitting to her company,  
as he was but a Pet. He was nothing to her glory. But she was sure he _was_  
pleasing in shape, and her eyes wandered over his bare chest and the ripple   
of muscle engraved there, in the same cold manner that she might have appraised   
a racehorse, if she would have done such a thing.

Suspicious, of her strange expression – or an expression strange to her  
– he sat up quickly. “What are you starin’ at?”

She tilted her head curiously. “Do you wish to copulate?”

Stunned for a moment, he spluttered. “_Bloody hell_, Blue! Was that   
an _offer_?”

“You are lonely. You long for the human you cannot have. You have sought  
comfort in fornication with the half-breed called Harmony. The shell I inhabit  
can be used for this purpose, even though the thought sickens inside me  
and I swallow my gorge as I think of it.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “You really have a way with the sweet talk.”

Illyria stepped closer and her clothing began to melt into transparency,   
showing a lot of milky white skin dusted with cobalt.

“Whoa there, missy!” Spike panicked. “Stop!”

Her covering opaque once again, but in no way embarrassed, Illyria tilted   
her head. “You do not wish this.”

“No…”

Illyria morphed into her shell’s true form; Fred’s face, Fred’s eyes,  
looked at him chillingly from the dead. Fred’s voice said. “Maybe this is  
better.”

“No. No!” Spike jumped angrily off the bed and put it between them. “Don’t  
do that! That body happens to belong to a friend of mine and you don’t  
belong in there.”

Fred became Illyria once more. “The Winifred Burkle you knew is gone.  
What is left is but a shell and holds none of her essence, yet you are repulsed   
as Wesley was.”

“And quite right too,” Spike started to pace uncomfortably. “Look, I know   
she isn’t coming back, but I still see _her_, you know.”

Illyria’s eyes tracked him, unblinking, but she listened.

He sighed and looked at his feet. “Besides, there’s only one woman that  
I want.”

Illyria thought this over. She had surmised that at the root of his mood   
could be the Slayer called Buffy. He’d ranted endlessly about Angel, but  
Buffy was a door he’d firmly shut on her. Their journey had been difficult  
for him at times, but seeing Buffy especially, had only seemed to underline  
just how much he missed her.

Illyria didn’t understand what it was that drew Spike and the Slayer together,  
and she pondered the pointlessness of feeling so much for someone they  
couldn’t be with. The humans were all weakened like that. They had emotions,  
feelings that drove their decisions and their desires. Even the half-breeds,  
their demons defiled with the taint of humanity, were driven by their emotional   
needs. Spike had told Illyria once that she didn’t have the capacity to understand,  
but she did, in her own fashion. She wasn’t offering to replace the Slayer,  
love was an emotion she did not wish to feel for her Pet, but there was  
comfort to be offered if he needed it.

“Your view at the birth of the New Year was different.” Illyria stepped  
round the bed, intent.

“Look, I was pissed and it was dark…” Spike backed away from Illyria’s   
advance. “’Sides it was only a peck to see the New Year in.”

Illyria stepped closer again. He went to evade her, but he was not quick   
enough to avoid her grabbing him by the throat and slamming him back into   
the wall. Before he could protest, her mouth was on his. It was an awkward,  
sucking kiss, devoid of passion or feeling, and her rubbery tongue felt  
more like a squid objecting to being pulled out of water, than an organ of  
sensuous connection. Her only attempt at technique was based on a hazy memory  
from a dead woman and she couldn’t comprehend its purpose, but overall she  
thought she’d done rather well.

“Bleugh!” He spluttered when she’d finished.

Revolted, he squirmed out of Illyria’s grasp, only to find Buffy and Willow   
standing speechless in the middle of the room.

“Er…” Spike started, embarrassed. He gestured to the God King who was  
now surveying the newcomers with interest. “Have you met Illyria?”

Willow looked at Buffy, worried.

“She _is_ blue.” Buffy said, as her lower lip started an uncontrolled   
wobble.

“Buffy! It’s not like that! She doesn’t really know what she’s doing…”   
Spike shoved Illyria out of the way and gave Buffy the most honest look he  
could muster.

Luckily the expression had improved since regaining his soul and Buffy   
looked up at him with wide eyes wanting to trust, but they betrayed the hurt  
inside.

Illyria looked at Willow, inspecting her closely. “This one brims with   
power I have not seen yet in this world, but she is human.”

Willow, uncomfortable under Illyria’s stare, gave the God King a small   
wave. “Hi.”

Illyria glared back.

As always in times of need, Willow was as eager as to talk of her magic.  
“Buffy asked me if I could bring her here. She had the weirdest phone call…”

Illyria straightened and looked at Spike. “I called the one named Buffy.   
You were lonely. I wished my Pet to be happy again. Your demonstrations were  
distracting and annoying. I thought she would not come.”

“I used the mistletoe you gave Buffy to fix your position, and I zapped  
us here.” Willow finished with an ‘aren’t I clever?’ grin.

Spike nodded, thanking her. “Very nice, Samantha. Owe you one.”

“What’s going on?” Buffy asked, confused. “One minute you’re dead and  
see-through and all ‘I’ll get back to you’, the next you’re shacking up  
with some demon skank!”

“Skank?” asked Illyria, tasting the new word.

Spike gently took Buffy’s arm, which she quickly snatched back, and guided   
her to the door. “Let me explain somewhere quiet.”

When Spike and Buffy returned, Spike was nursing a black eye; despite  
this, the pair looked happy and at ease with other.

“Willow?” Buffy asked. “Angel, Spike and Whatshername here have been having   
some trouble with Wolfram and Hart.”

Illyria has been telling me,” Willow looked at Illyria doubtfully. “Sort   
of. So what are we going to do?”

Spike objected. “You don’t have to help us, love. Used to fighting our   
own battles…”

“You need help. I am help!” Buffy told him. “Andrew and I took down their  
Rome office in the summer, I don’t think the rest will be a problem.”

“Ilona left a bug in your room.” Spike told her, concerned. “We saw her.”

“Oh that, Dawn found that ages ago when she broke my favourite vase. We  
put it in Andrew’s room.”

Spike blinked in surprise. “What about Ilona?”

“Oh her,” Buffy smiled. “She’s history. We sent her packing.”

“A waste of a good pair of breasts…” Willow mused before she caught herself.

Illyria watched the conversation from the sidelines. She didn’t understand   
the strange speech of the girls, but she understood they were making plans  
to take down Wolfram and Hart for good. The Slayer fascinated Illyria.  
On the surface she was a young, frivolous, if rather shallow, girl, but  
underneath Illyria recognised the steely warrior. She respected that strength,  
it was sorely lacking in most mortals.

When she spoke, it was in a tone that would tolerate no argument. “We  
will employ the warrior as she offers.”

All eyes turned to Illyria in surprise. Spike went to protest. “But…”

“Despite her feeble appearance,” she stared at Buffy. “I detect strength   
in her. She will be of use to us.” She looked over at Spike to add “And it  
will give my Pet pleasure to have her near. I tire of his moods.”

“Pet?” Buffy mouthed at Spike.

Spike gave an embarrassed shrug. “No idea.”

“You will explain to me why you have this power over him,” Illyria frowned  
at Buffy, as if resenting her already. “I wish to know the meaning of this   
‘love’.”

Buffy gaped. “What?”

“No!” Spike held up a hand. “No more explaining! Not goin’ through all   
that again!”

“So, that’s it then? A deal? Me, you, Willow and Whatshername against  
Wolfram and Hart?” Buffy moved over to Spike’s side, keen to distance herself  
from the bizarre woman. She smiled up at him, getting as close as she could.   
“They don’t stand a chance. They’ll be gone by the end of the week!” She   
rested her hands on his chest, and traced small circles against his skin   
with a finger “and then…”

Her touch diverting him from any other thoughts, he wrapped his arms around   
her waist and looked down at her with a seductive half smile, one eyebrow   
cocked. “And then?”

“And then...” she said softly near his mouth as he closed the distance   
between them. “We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up.”

Willow sighed and smiled as the couple finally kissed, happy to see them  
together at last. Illyria bedside her, studied them more carefully, closely  
analysing their technique. _So, that is how it’s done_, she thought.  
As the kiss deepened and lengthened, her head tilted with curiosity.

She could almost see the attraction.

  


  


  


  


  
  


  


  



End file.
